Points of View
by Jezrianna2.0
Summary: The United Federation of Planets and its Star Fleet, seen from a different point of view.
1. Chapter 1

Star Trek and all related characters and indicia are owned by Paramount. This work of fan fiction is written for pleasure, not profit.

"Captain's log, Stardate 42117.8. The Enterprise has rendezvoused with twenty-three other Federation starships and seventy-seven Starfleet cargo ships for an emergency humanitarian mission. Under the command of Admiral Rhee Soon Pak and Ambassador Lars Magnusson, we are heading for the Selenker Republic, an independent system lying just beyond the boundaries of the Federation. On arrival we will…" Jean-Luc Picard paused, his lips puckering as if he had just eaten something sour. Or bitter.

"On arrival we will load two hundred-fifty million metric tonnes of food, to be used to offset the failed harvests on Centarus and Andor." Picard touched the pause button and leaned back in his chair. He picked up his teacup, sipped and let out a sigh. He let his eyes wander the Ready Room as he considered how to proceed with his log entry. The Ready Room of the Enterprise-D was a great comfort to him. The large (relatively speaking) compartment just off the bridge was a sanctuary from the pressures of command, where a captain could think about complex problems without the bridge crew, and especially the ships counselor, watching his every move. Picard allowed himself a slight smile. Strictly speaking, Ready Rooms were a bourgeois luxury quite at odds with the egalitarian ideals of the Federation. They were grudgingly permitted though, because their effect on command efficiency was too apparent for even a rabid political purist to ignore.

That didn't mean that said purists were happy about the arrangement. Deanna Troi was less than thrilled about it even now, in no small part, Picard assumed, because it was the one compartment in the whole ship that she couldn't enter without his permission. He suspected that Troi's reports to Starfleet on the crew's emotional health included references to 'the difficulties in assessing the Captain's emotional stability posed by lack of observational access', as she had once phrased it.

"Speaking of phrasing things…" Picard muttered under his breath. He had better choose his next words carefully. He could erase what he had already recorded, but that didn't mean the words he had already spoken on the matter would disappear from _every_ record. And too many erasures could lead to questions by themselves. Best to not mention the five billion tonnes of food the Federation was already importing from the Republic this year. Or that the amount imported rose every year, despite the best efforts of the Federation to encourage more efficient production. The failures were off limits too, he decided. Even he didn't believe the official explanations, of stellar fluctuations in the case of Centarus and planet-wide fungal infections on Andor, and he was sure the Selenker's knew better. With the thought came a flash of inspiration. Picard touched the record button.

"In light of the looming crisis on those two worlds and the 'grave concern' of the so-called 'free people of Selenker', I am surprised the profit-mongers who control the government are not refraining from charging their usual inflated prices. It can only be a sign of their arrogance and utter disregard for sentient life that they don't even care that their hypocrisy is exposed for all the galaxy to see." Perfect. Picard leaned back and smiled again. That entry shouldn't cause any problems for him, no matter who reviewed it later. And it wasn't even a lie. Picard really was upset that Enterprise and the other ships in the convoy were carrying a couple of hundred billion Work Credits worth of raw materials and luxury goods with which to pay for the food shipment, not to mention being diverted from the exploration work that was his true passion. Oh, well. You couldn't always have things your way.

* * *

Wesley Crusher sat at the bridge helm station and tried not to let his excitement get the better of him. The _Enterprise_ and her convoy were less than an hour from dropping out of warp at the fringes of the Selenker system and the young acting ensign was bursting with curiosity. He had heard many stories about this bastion of unbridled capitalism, and was looking forward to seeing if any of them were true. 

"You're unusually cheerful this morning Mr. Crusher," Deanna Troi's voice sounded behind him. He turned to look at her, a smile on his face. Wesley knew some people were afraid of Troi because of her empathic abilities, but he wasn't one of them. Ship's Counselor might not be a universally admired job, but it was a job that needed doing, and Betazoids were better at it than most.

"Yes Ma'am," he said. "I've studied degenerate societies in my political science classes of course, but reading from a book is no substitute for seeing it with your own eyes."

Troi smiled back. "So it's simple intellectual curiosity that has you so eager to visit Selenker?" The words were said in a perfectly conversational tone of voice, and her smile never faltered, but there was something in Troi's eyes that sent a brief chill down Wesley's spine.

"What else could it be Ma'am?"

"Nothing, I'm sure," Troi answered in the same conversational tone, her smile just as broad but somehow…menacing.

Wesley turned back to the helm and couldn't help but wonder if he had been too enthusiastic.

* * *

A short time later Captain Picard strode onto the bridge accompanied by Admiral Rhee and Ambassador Magnusson. "Report status," Picard barked as he took his place in the center seat. 

"Our velocity is down to Warp one-point-one. We are fifteen-point-two minutes out from the beacon," Lieutenant Commander Data responded.

"Very well Mr. Data, prepare to secure from warp. Mr. Worf, patch me through to all convoy ships."

"Aye, sir," the Klingon tactical officer replied. A few seconds of work at his console produced the desired result. "All ships patched in Captain."

"Attention all convoy ships, this is Captain Picard. Prepare to secure from warp on my mark."

The transition from warp to impulse drive was made without incident, somewhat to Picard's surprise. Having so many ships in close proximity to one another made a collision a real danger, especially during radical velocity changes. Still, the convoy dropped out of warp and came to rest relative to the beacon right on schedule, four-point-two light hours from Selenker's G3 primary. Almost at once a signal arrived.

"Federation convoy, this is Avalon Control. Welcome to the Selenker Republic. Please transmit the names of your ships for an ID check."

Picard looked at Admiral Rhee. Rhee glanced at Ambassador Magnusson, who nodded slightly. "Proceed Captain," Rhee ordered. "Go ahead Mr. Worf." The Klingon touched a few buttons on his console. "Ship names sent Captain."

After another brief pause Avalon Control came back on. "There are one-hundred-one ships in your convoy. We have ID certificates for ninety-seven of them. Those ships will hold their positions while we verify their certificates." At that, a dozen small craft that had been drifting nearby began to move past the Federation convoy on all sides. "The following ships will stand by to receive inspection parties: _Commune_, _Enterprise_, _Solidarity_ and _Troika_."

"We are being scanned Captain," Worf reported at once "Shuttlecraft approaching portside docking bay," he added a moment later. "Understood Mr. Worf," was all Picard said in reply.

"What are they doing?" Wesley wondered aloud. Data answered. "They are comparing our actual hull maps and emission profiles to the ones in our Identification certificates." At Wesley's puzzled look Commander William Riker spoke up. "The Selenker's are touchy about security, Wes. They keep records on every ship that enters their system. Any ship that doesn't match it's ID certificate has basically two choices: submit to boarding for close inspection, or leave the system. _Enterprise_ has never been here before, which is why we're about to have visitors."

"Speaking of visitors," Picard said, "Number One, please greet our guests for me, and see to it that they receive all the cooperation they need to do their work." The Captain's voice was steady, but Wesley was sure he detected resentment. "Yes, sir," Riker said, rising. "Mr. Crusher, Mr. Worf, with me."

* * *

As the airlock cycled, Wesley wondered briefly why the Selenkers hadn't beamed aboard, before remembering that they had transporter technology, but used it very rarely, and never on living creatures. He remembered that from one of his classes, sociology maybe. The Selenkers were of the opinion that people that went into a transporter didn't come out again, no matter what the thing that emerged on the other end claimed. A strange belief, not at all logical. In fact, Wesley recalled, Selenker law stated that anyone who willingly underwent transport was considered to have committed suicide, and that transporting someone against their will was murder. He was still turning that over in his mind when the lock doors slid apart and the boarding party stepped through. 

There were five of them, three men and two women. Or rather, three males and two females, since one of the males was a Klingon and one of the females was a Cardassian. Four of them were wearing gray jumpsuits and carrying toolboxes. A Human male stepped forward. He was wearing what Wesley supposed was an officers uniform, consisting of black trousers, gray shirt, black tie, and gray jacket and carrying what looked like an oversized tricorder. Wesley had only seen its like in archival video and historical dramas. A number of -isms came to mind: nationalism, militarism, and fascism. The man came to attention and saluted. "Permission to come aboard sir?"

"Granted, and welcome aboard the _Enterprise_," Riker replied politely. He didn't return the salute. The Selenker dropped his, a slight flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "Lieutenant James Selfridge, Selenker Coast Guard," he said, extending his hand as he introduced himself.

"Commander William Riker." Riker did take and shake Selfridge's hand. "This is Lieutenant Worf, our Security Chief, and Ensign Crusher. They'll give you whatever assistance you need."

"Thank you Commander. I'm sure you're eager to be on your way, so we'll get started right away."

* * *

The inspection took just under an hour, and ranged from Engineering to the Bridge. Shortly after the Selenkers departed Avalon Control signaled. 

"Federation convoy, you are cleared to proceed at an acceleration of 5 kilometers per second squared along vector 137 by 45 by 36. After eight-point-two-two hours you will begin decelerating by the same amount along the same vector. This will bring you to rest relative to the Sonnetag Corporation's Number Six Orbital Cargo Handling facility. Do you understand your instructions?"

"Yes we do Avalon Control."

"Very well, you may get under way. Avalon Control out."

An hour in, Worf spoke up. "Two warships are approaching from port, Captain."

"On screen," Riker ordered. The display showed two dots of light, moving slowly relative to the background of stars.

"Magnify," Picard commanded. The screen zoomed in. The closer view showed the ships to be vaguely cylindrical, with faceted sides. Picard turned to Worf.

"The computer identifies them as _Victory _class battleships, eight hundred meters long, three point five million tonnes, heavily armed and armored."

"I wonder what they want?" Riker mused. A tone sounded.

"I think we're about to find out," Picard observed lightly.

"Incoming signal," Worf grumbled.

"On screen." The ships vanished, replaced by a young looking Human male.

"Captain Picard. I'm Lieutenant Gonzales, communications watch officer aboard _R.S.S. Conqueror_," the youngster said politely. "Admiral Kyle sends her compliments, and asks that all ships in your convoy raise their shields."

Picard glanced at Riker. "My compliments to your Admiral," he said, remembering his manners just in time. "Raise our shields?" he asked, baffled.

Lieutenant Gonzales smiled patiently. "A minor housekeeping matter, Captain. A Romulan ship is trying to sneak into the system, using your convoy as cover. Please raise your shields so we can deal with them."

Picard turned to Ambassador Magnusson, who merely shrugged.

"Very well. Mr. Worf, signal all ships to bring their shields up. Mr. Data, if you would?"

When the shields were up, Worf announced, "The Republican ships are turning to open their broadsides."

Picard nodded. The _Victory_ class were supposed to have twenty-four ultraviolet and eight gamma ray lasers in each broadside, and sure enough, seconds later sixty-four beams were converging on a spot fifty kilometers astern of the _Enterprise_. A shield bubble flared into view as the defensive screen fought to absorb and reradiate the incoming torrent of energy. A ship shimmered into view and Worf said, "Romulan Warbird de-cloaking dead aft." Picard watched in fascination. The Romulan's shield wasn't strong enough to completely stop the Republican beams, and clouds of vapor erupted from the hull as plating boiled away. A sudden flare indicated a hull breach, as oxygenated air hit superheated matter and burst briefly into flame. The Romulan was turning away, but Picard knew instinctively that it was already too late.

"The Romulan's warp core is de-stabilizing," Worf intoned gravely. The screen went white. _Enterprise_ shook as the shockwave passed over her.

Lieutenant Gonzales reappeared. "Thank you for your cooperation _Enterprise_, have a safe journey."

As the Republican ships turned away, Riker spoke up. "Well, that was interesting," he said.

"Wasn't it though," Troi's voice was cold, but Riker knew she wasn't angry at him. Deanna hated the Selenker's with a passion that sometimes worried him, and this casual display of brute force was certain to have pushed her buttons.

"Definitely a double meaning to it," Picard agreed.

"How so?" Troi demanded coolly.

Picard fought down a nervous swallow and said, "The Selenker's can obviously detect cloaked ships, whereas we cannot. By putting on their little display they were..." He paused. 'Better put a dodge word in here,' he thought quickly. "They were trying," he went on, emphasizing the word 'trying', "to demonstrate technical and military superiority over us."

Troi regarded him thoughtfully, then nodded once and turned away. Picard allowed himself to relax, but not to obviously.

* * *

The comm chimed. Riker's voice announced, "All persons wishing to take liberty must register in accordance with standard procedures. Work-credits may be exchanged for Selenker dollars in 10 Forward beginning at 1200 hours. That is all."

"I think you'll enjoy New Chicago. I certainly did, last time I was here," LaForge commented as he, Wesley and Data, along with one hundred and forty-seven others, watched the Selenker shuttle approach the docking port. "When was that?" Wesley asked curiously. LaForge glanced at him. "Seven years ago. I was an ensign on my first cruise. I didn't have much money then, but I had a great time anyway." LaForge was clearly excited, and Wesley remembered the surprised look on Commander Riker's face in 10 Forward when Georgi exchanged seven years of carefully hoarded work credits for over eleven hundred Selenker dollars.

Wesley turned to regard the approaching shuttle. He frowned. Shuttle wasn't quite the right word. For one thing, he had never seen a shuttle with the words _Hanson Transit Lines _emblazoned on it's side. Then the thought hit him. This wasn't a government craft. It was a privately owned vehicle.

After everyone was aboard, the 'bus' as the pilot (who called himself a driver) referred to it, pulled away from the Enterprise and headed for the surface. As the planet drew nearer Wesley got another surprise. As they swept around the night side he saw swatches of light, some of them enormous, covering areas of the various continents. His jaw dropped. "Profligate waste of resources," he breathed. That was one of the worst crimes in the Federation, almost as bad as murder, and here the Selenkers were throwing who knew how much energy away to keep their cities lighted at night. All night long in fact, since there were illuminated cities from the sunset to sunrise edges of the night side. The largest pool of light was right on the terminator, moving into a new day, and the bus was heading right for it.

"That's New Chicago," Geordi informed him. "Big, isn't it?"

"I'll say," Wesley agreed. It was far and away the largest city he had ever seen.

"There are almost a hundred million people living in New Chicago, and that many more in it's suburbs," Geordi went on. "You won't believe how crowded it is, and how busy. The traffic is unimaginable."

"Traffic?" Wesley asked. He knew what traffic was, of course. Every city had traffic, but why Geordi should make such a big deal out of it was something Wesley couldn't quite fathom. His confusion must have been evident, because LaForge grinned and said, "You'll understand when you see it."


	2. Chapter 2

Star Trek and all related characters and indicia are owned by Paramount. This work of fan fiction is written for pleasure, not profit.

WWLAOS: It's good to be back. I hope it lasts :)

Troi-junkie: Hope this chapter answers a few questions.

It took Wesley less than five minutes to decide that Geordi had been understating the matter of traffic by at least half. The bus had landed at a place called the 'Metro Southwest Transit Hub', which seemed to be the busiest spaceport in the entire galaxy. Passenger shuttles of all sizes arrived and departed in never ending streams, from every point on the compass. There were at least two or three taking off and landing every minute, and that was just in the areas that Wesley could see. 

It was even worse curbside, as Geordi termed the part of the terminal where passengers arrived and departed. There were three levels for ground cars, two more for air cars, as well as buses and two light rail lines. Geordi gestured for Wesley and Data to follow him, and split off from the main group of Starfleet personnel. Wesley glanced back over his shoulder. The rest of the group was being split up into groups of four or five enlisted personnel, each accompanied by an officer whose job it would be to keep an eye on them and make sure they returned to the ship. Wesley couldn't help but grin. Since he, Data and Geordi were all officers they wouldn't need a keeper, nor would they have to baby sit a gaggle of would be smugglers and/or defectors. It would make their time dirtside a lot more fun, he was sure.

Their first order of business was, at Geordi's direction, to purchase a twenty-four hour all zone transit pass and board a train bound for the heart of New Chicago. Wesley found it a bit disconcerting that anyone at all could just walk up to a remote terminal, anonymously slide in an untraceable unit of currency, and receive a pass that allowed them almost unrestricted travel. Stranger yet was the lack of checkpoints. Oh sure, there were gates at the entrance to the boarding areas, but they were unattended. All they had to do was let the machine scan their pass to make sure it was current and covered the zone the gate was in, and they were allowed through. No checking of ID's, no questions about where they were going and why, nothing.

The ride into the city center was an eye opener as well. According to the map that had come with each pass, the city center was thirty-one kilometers from the spaceport they had landed at. The route passed through agricultural land at first, then small towns, then entered what had to be a neighborhood reserved for the economic elite of New Chicago. Enormous houses squatted on vast lawns. Each house seemed to have one or two vehicles associated with it, and some had three or more.

Next the train passed through an area dominated by garishly illuminated structures that seemed to be shops of one sort or another, most of which had huge lots around them that were overflowing with ground cars.

When he wasn't staring out the windows Wesley watched the people who got on and off the train. The train, being an express, only stopped a few times on its way into New Chicago but the people were fascinating. The great majority of them were human, of course, but there were Klingons, Ferengi and even a Gorn, as well a couple of beings Wesley didn't recognize at all.

His fellow passengers were wearing a wide variety of clothing. Wesley wasn't conversant with Selenker notions about fashion, but based on simple preponderance, he assumed most of the people aboard the train were wearing casual attire. Interestingly, the Klingons and Ferengi were dressed exactly like the humans were. Even the Gorn, whose anatomy wasn't really suited to clothing tailored for a human, was dressed in an outfit clearly intended to look as much like the predominant fashions as possible.

When the train pulled into what was announced as 'Central Station', Wesley found himself in more familiar circumstances. Surface rail was a very efficient way of moving people and goods overland, and all Federation worlds made extensive use of the technology. Central Station reminded him of the old Union Station in San Francisco. The architecture was quite similar, and he wondered if the similarity was deliberate. Before he could find out, though, Geordi beckoned for Wesley and Data to follow him, and the trio left the station for the early morning sunlight outside.

* * *

Jean-Luc Picard sat in the back of the passenger cabin of the VIP shuttle, alone with his thoughts and glad he had no other company. He, Admiral Rhee and Ambassador Magnussen had gone to a meeting with the President of the Selenker Republic and some of the top officers of his Cabinet, ostensibly to discuss the food shipment in particular, but also Federation-Selenker relations in general. Picard didn't know for sure what Magnussen's orders were, and the Ambassador, who had, in Picard's mind, a well deserved reputation for obsessive secrecy and empire building, hadn't deigned to share them. It hadn't helped that Magnussen despised Ambassador Long, the permanent Federation envoy to Selenker. Nor had the man been able to fully contain his loathing for the Selenker economic and political systems and their attendant social inequalities and injustices. Picard didn't like them much either, but at least he knew that the first rule of diplomacy was: keep your mouth shut! Magnussen apparently didn't, and the tone of the talks quickly became...tense. 

The Selenkers seemed to have sensed the discomfort Magnussen's arrogance was causing his nominal subordinates, though, and their President had taken steps to alleviate it. At least, that had been the apparent motive. It was possible, Picard supposed, even likely, that the Selenkers had anticipated Magnussen's attitude and schemed to use it to their advantage. The steps had involved the President inviting Rhee and Picard to tour various Selenker military and naval facilities while the talks went on, and Magnussen had hardly been in a position to decline the offer.

So Admiral Rhee had departed in the company of the Chief of Staff of the Selenker Army, while Picard found himself attending the Selenkers Chief of Naval Operations. That was either a sign of pure chance at work, or great cunning on the part of the Selenkers and their various intelligence services. Picard wasn't sure which notion he preferred to believe. It might have been the former, but it was far more likely to be the latter. Still, it wasn't all bad, even if it was the result of a nefarious plot by the Selenkers and their thrice-accursed Directorate of Central Intelligence. A chance to meet Cynthia Braye was a pleasure Picard wouldn't pass up except in the direst circumstances.

Leaning back in the sinfully comfortable seat aboard Admiral Braye's personal shuttle, Picard allowed himself a small smile. Admiral Cynthia Braye was a much studied and respected figure in Starfleet. Of course, Starfleet kept files on all Selenker flag officers, and even a few captains that displayed more than average skill, but Braye was one of the special ones. She was watched closely, and her file was larger than most, and only partly because she'd take the leading role in a war between the Federation and the Republic. Braye's forty year career had been a stellar one, in spite of a few early stumbles, and once she reached command rank she'd really taken off. Not counting one-on-one fights against pirates and others, she had half a dozen actions as a squadron commander under her belt as well. Admittedly, these were small affairs, usually a few cruisers and destroyers against equally small enemy forces, but that still meant Braye had more experience commanding large groups of ships in battle than most Starfleet officers did. Add to that the fact that the heaviest units of the Selenker Navy, unlike their Federation counterparts, trained almost exclusively in group tactics, and it meant that, in any potential war the Selenkers would be at a distinct advantage, at least during the opening phases.

Not that Braye's skill as a tactician came as a surprise, at least not to Picard. She was, after all, the daughter of McKeel Braye, the legendary 'Fighting Admiral', and a hero of Picard's. Admiral Braye had been pleased and a bit embarrassed when Picard had informed her of that fact.

"That's very kind of you, Captain Picard," she'd said, her cheeks flushing slightly to match her still red hair.

"Not at all, Ma'am," Picard had replied. "Your father's victories, especially the one at Silver Springs, are still required study at Starfleet Acadamy."

"So I've heard," Braye had responded, smiling again. "He always considered that a great honor."

That remark reminded Picard of something else he'd wanted to say.

"Yes. I want you to know that I was greatly saddened to hear of his passing. I very much wanted to meet him in person."

Picard glanced up to the front of the cabin. Admiral Braye was sitting in the front row of seats with two of her aides, discussing something in low tones. A few other people, including a handful of government employees from the Selenker Navy Department occupied other seats, but none were too close. Picard smiled thinly. No doubt Braye knew that Picard would have to write up a complete report on everything he had seen and heard during his tours of the various ships and stations he'd been taken to, and was giving him time to collect his thoughts.

It was a complex and subtle game. The Selenkers had to know that Picard was, for all intents and purposes, a spy, and that whatever he saw would be reported back to Starfleet to be used against them in any future war. On the other hand, Picard had to assume that anything the Selenkers allowed him to see was something they _wanted_ him to see, for whatever reason.

Take, for example, the space dock they had just left. Situated at Selenker's L5 point, it was a dumbbell shaped structure five kilometers high, with docking stations for twenty-five large ships. Most of them had been occupied by ships of the largest types: a dozen battleships, at least one carrier, a couple of heavy cruisers and a trio of regimental assault transports. All, Admiral Braye had explained, were either undergoing refit or repair to bring them up to the latest standards, or loading supplies in preparation for upcoming sorties. She hadn't mentioned the icons on the shuttle's guidance display that showed at least six more such facilities, with dozens of smaller stations (and a handful of larger ones), close by. All of which was a way of reminding Picard that the Republic's navy was (in terms of combatants) almost as large as Starfleet (or larger, depending on how you chose to define 'combatant'), despite the fact that Selenker was tiny in comparison to the UFP.

Of course, raw numbers didn't tell the whole story. Most of Selenker's 'combat warships', almost two-thirds of them, were escorts and patrol craft. They were effective against pirates and the like, but would be of little or no use in a proper battle. Also, the Selenker Navy labored under a number of self-imposed limitations that Starfleet didn't have to worry about. For example, the Selenkers used fusion power to run their warships. Sure, fusion reactors were cheaper than annihilation reactors, and the Selenkers had developed fusion technology to unparalleled heights of efficiency, but that didn't change the fact that, ton for ton, fusion reactors had lower maximum output capacities than the annihilation reactors Starfleet used. The Selenkers had to devote much larger percentages of their ships' volumes to fuel storage, and even then their operational ranges were much, much lower than a comparable Federation vessel's. Two weeks between refuelings was the average number, if Picard remembered right, as opposed to a year or more for average Federation vessels. That necessitated an extensive (and expensive) logistical system.

Weaponry was another area where the Republic lagged behind. Well, maybe that wasn't the right word. The Selenker's knew about phasers, they just chose to not use them. Again, it was at least in part for reasons of economy. A laser projector was less expensive on a ton-for-ton basis than a phaser projector. Like their reactors, Selenker lasers were the most efficient in the known galaxy in terms of the ratio of power output to power input, but any laser lacked the raw destructive power of a phaser of the same nominal power rating. That was partially offset by the Republican practice of mounting large numbers of projectors on their ships, but even then Picard estimated that any given class of Selenker ship had at most eighty percent of the firepower of its Federation counterpart.

Picard snorted quietly. He was suddenly reminded of the briefings he regularly received on the naval strength of potential enemies. The sections on Selenker seemed to suffer from a kind of schizophrenia, as they at once warned of the fearful threat posed by the unnecessarily large navy of the Federation's tiny neighbor, while at the same time denigrating the Republic's reliance on 'pathetically outmoded technologies'. The writers of those briefings apparently didn't realize that it was flatly impossible for the Selenkers to be a threat without having effective weapons. The incident with the Romulan warship had been proof of that. Picard knew that some Federation 'experts' went so far as to claim that Republican lasers would be completely ineffective against Federation shields. Just who they thought they were fooling Picard didn't know. He did have a fair idea where said 'experts' had their heads, though.

'Romulan shields are almost as good as ours,' Picard mused, 'And operate on the same principals, and the Repub's didn't have any trouble with them.'

He sighed. Any war between the Federation and the Republic would be a hard fought and bloody one, even if the Federation would ultimately prevail. Still, Picard didn't believe such a war was imminent, nor, in his mind, was one necessary. Oh, sure, there were rabid purists back home who were keen on spreading the Revolution as fast as possible, even if it meant war, and just as many who hated the Selenkers for spitting in the eye of the Federation and its egalitarian ideals. Picard, however, was among those who counseled patience. The people of Selenker would come around. It was only a matter of time.

* * *

Deanna Troi fought down the urge to snarl as she helped her friend and sometime lover William Riker process the latest batch of crewpersons headed for shore leave on Selenker. 

'I wonder how many of this bunch we'll lose,' she wondered darkly. She spat a silent curse at the Selenkers and their miserable, soul corrupting capitalism. She wouldn't be at all surprised if at least one of _Enterprise's_ crew succumbed to the temptations offered dirtside and asked the Selenkers for 'political asylum'. Despite her efforts her lips twisted in a bitter grimace. It was galling in the extreme for a member of an enlightened society to have to come, hat in hand, to a bunch of filthy money grubbers, asking for a handout. It was equally galling that she had no legitimate way to deny _all _requests for leave, so she could protect her crewmates from the toxic effects of the society they were all so damnably eager to visit. All she could do was make a note of those among them were unusually eager to go. They might try to smuggle controlled items back aboard ship, something that was always a danger. Troi had made a point of getting the latest version of the Controlled List before they left the Federation, along with an updated copy of the Ancillary List, the list of things (mostly books, movies and songs) that were strong candidates for the Controlled List. Troi took the edge off her anger by imagining the chagrined looks on the faces of returning crew members as she confiscated items they had purchased, and the glee she would feel as she tossed each one into the disposal unit as they watched.

A soft rustling sound drew her attention. Wil was handing a sheaf of Selenker money to a grinning crewman. Troi frowned. That was another sore point. Selenker money was accepted throughout the Alpha Quadrant. Literally everyone would take it: the Klingons, the Romulans, the Cardassians, etc. Federation Work-Credits, on the other hand, were worthless outside the Federation. That meant that Troi's own government had to avail itself of as much 'hard currency' (how she hated that term!) as it could, if it wanted to take part in interstellar trade without resorting to bartering goods for goods, as it was all too often forced to do.

'Like now,' she thought glumly, remembering the cargos they had brought with them to exchange for the food they needed. 'At least this time we aren't borrowing the money from the Selenker government, like we did last time,' Troi consoled herself, before remembering that unless things changed back home, there would be a next time as well.

A buzz at the back of her head drew Troi out of her reverie. She looked up to see a crewperson, one Colleen Gates, turn away from Wil with a huge roll of Selenker dollars in her hand. Gates was, Troi recalled, none too enthusiastic in her support of the Revolution and its ideals. Still, she said all the right things when asked, and was a regular and frequent participant in her weekly political discussions, so there was nothing Troi could do about Gates' lack of zeal. Now Troi tasted quite strong emotions flowing from the woman. Excitement was the uppermost emotion, underlain with anxiety and fear, as well as a distinct contempt for the people around her. Gates' eyes swept over Troi and her face, previously split by a huge grin, went blank. That didn't disguise the spike of fear and hatred that rose in the mousy little bitch. Deanna didn't allow herself to react to that. Not openly anyway. A lot of the people on the _Enterprise_ feared and/or hated her. It was a popular, if not quite accurate, rumor that a single word from Troi could get a person sent to a Re-education Facility, there to be turned into a mindlessly obedient laborer.

Actually, it would take a certain amount of hard proof, in the form of evidence that non-telepaths could agree proved counterrevolutionary activities, before anyone was dragged off. Still, Troi decided that if Gates returned to the ship, which suddenly seemed doubtful, she would start looking for just such evidence.


	3. Chapter 3

Star Trek and all related characters and indicia are owned by Paramount. This work of fan fiction is written for pleasure, not profit.

_ Grayangle, JadziaKathryn: Thanks for the reviews. _

The downtown area was the most amazing place Wesley had ever seen. It put San Francisco to shame. He had never seen so many shops. There were stores and boutiques selling anything and everything he could imagine, and a few things he couldn't. And the crowds! He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen so many people in such a small area. Not that the shopping district was all that small. It seemed to go on forever. He, Geordi and Data wandered around for hours, poking their heads into whatever shops struck their fancy, buying food from street vendors, and watching the hordes of people. Finally they came to an enormous store that specialized in music.

"Hey, let's go in here!" Geordi suggested. Data, of course, would go along with just about any suggestion, but Wesley hung back. There were, he was sure, a lot of things in that store that were on the Controlled List. Things that he probably shouldn't see. Things that it was illegal for him to possess.

"I don't know, Geordi," Wesley said doubtfully. "If Counselor Troi knew we went in there..."

Geordi snorted derisively. "Relax, Wes. For one thing, Counselor Troi doesn't know we're here, and I won't tell her if you won't. For another, not everything in there is banned. If you see something you're interested in, just tell me. I brought a copy of the List with me." He hefted his personal tricorder. It was a civilian model, much bulkier than the standard Starfleet issued ones. Geordi had been taking pictures with it, pictures of just about everything they'd seen since they hit dirtside.

Wesley relaxed. "I suppose you're right," he admitted with a grin. "Let's go!" And with that he took the lead and plunged into the store.

The place was amazing. Wesley grinned at that. He'd been using the word 'amazing' a lot lately. Well, it was. He'd been in a music store in New York once that boasted that it had 'the largest selection of music in the Federation'. That might well have been the case, but it had nothing on this place. There were aisles and aisles of albums by thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of artists. And there was an entire wall covered with personal music players. Wesley started toward it without even realizing it. He had a music player of his own, but it was nothing like these. It had taken him six months to save enough work credits to acquire it, and it was a low end player. The store he'd bought it at had a few Selenker-made music players on display, but the prices were astronomical, so he'd settled for a Federation produced one. It was bulky, needed frequent cleaning, and went through it's charge in a couple of hours. Or had when he first bought it. With Geordi's help and some time in Engineering Wesley had managed to fix most of the defects and improve its performance significantly. Still, he'd been appalled at the shoddy workmanship with which the thing had been put together. He'd wanted to hunt down the manager of the factory where it was made and beat some sense into him, or at least get him to pay more attention to how his people did their jobs.

Wesley blinked when he saw the prices listed next to some of the players. One in particular. It was identical to the ones he'd seen in the store where he'd bought his own player, and it was priced at one forth of what it had been back home.

"Why is it so much cheaper here?" he wondered aloud. There was no good reason for it. Interstellar freighters were huge things, capable of carrying millions of tonnes of goods each. Hell, it cost less on a per tonne basis to move goods between stars than it did to move them from point to point on a planetary surface. So why in the name of the galaxy...?

"See anything you like?" Wesley started and spun around to see a kid about his own age standing nearby.

"Whoa, sorry, didn't mean to startle you," the kid said. Wesley, as his heart settled back into a normal rhythm, noticed that the kid was wearing a vest that had the store's logo on it.

"No problem," Wesley assured him. The kid smiled and repeated his question, with a minor variation. "I'm Ned. See anything you like?"

Wesley shook his head. "Well, yes, yes I do, Ned, but they're all so expensive..."

"On a budget, eh? How much do you have to spend?" Ned inquired politely.

Wesley wasn't exactly sure what Ned meant by that. Was he trying to find out how much money Wesley had? Then it hit him. Of course he was! 'He wants to know how much money I have so he can show me something I can afford!' Now, how much money did he have? He'd only brought fifty dollars, five of which had gone for the transit pass. He'd spent more on snacks, so he had about...

"Thirty-five dollars."

Ned pursed his lips. "That's austere," he commented. "Hmm. Well, we do have a few players in that range, but they're low end ones." Ned paused, thinking. "But now that I think about it, we have a few on close-out that are priced to move. Maybe one of those would do. C'mon, I'll show you."

Geordi watched Wesley follow one of the store staff along a display of personal electronic devices. "Wesley seems preoccupied, but would you keep an eye on him, Data? Say, five or ten minutes?"

The android regarded Geordi with his golden eyes. "Will ten minutes be sufficient time for you to...?" Data didn't get to finish his question. Geordi cut him off with a raised hand.

"Not out loud, Data. And yes, ten minutes should be enough." Geordi paused, looked at Wesley, cocked his head thoughtfully. "If he needs money to buy a decent music player, loan it to him, would you?"

"Very well," Data said, and moved off in Wesley's direction.

* * *

Geordi moved quickly. He had a list of fourteen titles memorized, and had them in hand in just a few minutes. Music chips were tiny things, rectangles of tough plastic about half a centimeter thick, a centimeter wide and three long. They stored their information in holograms that could be read and played back by nearly any brand of player. Since the Federation used the same recording standard the Selenkers did, compatibility wouldn't be an issue. Getting them on board the ship would be, but Geordi was an old hand at this. Counselor Troi didn't know it, but Geordi had hacked her secure database years ago. He had the latest copies of both the Controlled and Ancillary Lists, even the ones that hadn't been officially released, and he'd made his selections accordingly. Ten of the titles he meant to purchase were on the Controlled List, and if he was caught with them, he'd go straight to a Re-ed Center to have his brain blasted. An ordinary citizen, even an enlisted crewmember, might catch a fine for the first offence, but as an officer, Geordi would get the maximum punishment right off the bat. Have to make an example of him, and all that. But he wouldn't get caught. He hadn't been yet. 

Three of the albums he was going to buy were perfectly innocent, as they appeared on neither List. One was on the Ancillary List, and would be the excuse for any nervousness he'd feel when Troi met him while he was declaring his purchases. The girl behind the counter was a bit puzzled when Geordi asked her to ring up the ten banned titles separately, but merely shrugged and did as she was asked. Once he'd settled up, Geordi ducked out of the store, found a place to sit down at a nearby bus stop, and went to work. He'd long since replaced the guts of his oversized civilian tricorder with the innards of a military issue one. That left quite a bit of room inside the casing, even after he'd weighted it with lead to get the weight back to normal. More than enough room for ten music chips. Said chips were soon safely in place, secured so they wouldn't rattle, and the debris from their packaging was consigned to a handy garbage can. Geordi smiled. He had connections to the Shadow Market all through the Federation, and knew several people who could handle making and distributing bootleg copies for him, as well as seeing to it that his cut of the proceeds was held for him until he called for it.

* * *

Worf kept a close eye on his tactical displays. _Enterprise_ was floating in a parking orbit several thousand kilometers above Selenker, as were thousands of other ships. Avalon Control kept sufficient separation between ships that there was little danger of collision, but the sheer number of vessels made Worf nervous. Of course, there was more to his close attention to his sensors than mere concern for the ship's safety. The Selenkers had made it clear that active scans, with the exception of navigational radar, were unacceptable. It was possible to run passive scans however, even if the practice was uncommon in Starfleet and both the quality and quantity of information was considerably less than what might be acquired with _Enterprise_'s active systems. That was what he was doing at the moment, trying to tease as much information as he could out of what the ship's sensors could see. The communications officer was doing the same thing, listening to the Selenkers as they talked to each other and the various ships in their system. The vast majority of it was routine traffic, but every now and then they stumbled across a nugget of useful data. At least the communications officer thought so. Worf understood the value of breaking enemy encryption protocols, but he would have much preferred to train his sensors on a Selenker warship, or better still, a live fire exercise. Ultimately, though, what he really wanted was a chance to take the _Enterprise_ into action against one of them. Battle was the only true test of a warship's capabilities. Not that he would do anything that could be considered provocative. The captain had forbidden any such thing, and Worf wouldn't disgrace himself by disobeying the order. In his mind's eye, though, Worf could see a Selenker battleship blow apart under a relentless barrage of phaser and photon torpedo fire. It was a sight that warmed his heart. Perhaps, when his watch ended, he'd repair to one of the holodecks and run a few combat simulations. True, the sims weren't the best, since one hundred percent accurate models of potential enemy ships were difficult, if not impossible to get, but still. There was nothing like a few pitched battles to the death to get the blood flowing.

* * *

Dr. Beverly Crusher relaxed in her private office in the ship's main sick bay. She had just returned from a day-long tour of two groundside hospitals. Beverly allowed herself to smile. She suspected that her experiences with the Selenkers had been far less humiliating than some of her fellow crewmates had experienced. Beverly had found, in her travels throughout the galaxy, that doctors everywhere had a bond that superceded politics. After all, they were united against a common enemy, and that made it far easier to put aside mere matters of economic or social theory. 

The hospitals she'd been taken to had, of course, been deliberately chosen by the Selenker government to make some political points, but even so, no one on the Selenker side had said so much as a word to that end. The charity hospital, of example. It was situated in a poor neighborhood of New Chicago, and supported itself almost entirely through donations. Patients were charged only what they could afford to pay, which was usually a mere pittance, or nothing at all. However, the hospital received not one cent of funding from the government, unless you counted the tax breaks that went along with being a charitable organization. Instead, its funds came from donations from private citizens, from religious organizations, and (surprisingly) from corporations that manufactured drugs and medical equipment. For all that, the level and quality of care had equaled the best hospitals in the Federation.

The 'for profit' hospital had been much more lavishly equipped, but it was run even more efficiently than the charitable one had been, and far more efficiently than most Federation hospitals. Beverly had commented on that, triggering the only real political discussion of her entire trip.

"Well, Dr. Crusher, it's a matter of competition, you see. If we don't provide top notch care at competitive prices, we'll lose customers and go out of business. We don't want that, so we're always looking for ways to economize and do things better." The words had been spoken by the CEO of the hospital, a man who was himself not a physician, but who seemed to command the genuine respect of the hospital staff. As political comments went, they were the mildest sort of reproof, barely rising above the level of 'dispassionate observation'. That hadn't stopped Deanna Troi, who had come along, from nearly having an aneurysm. Only a hastily delivered harsh glare had kept the Counselor from making what would no doubt have been a scathing retort.

Beverly glanced at her desk. The top was cluttered with gifts from her Selenker colleagues. There were copies of medical journals, several books (real books, not electronic ones) and perhaps most important of all, samples of newly developed drugs for a wide variety of diseases and conditions. Counselor Troi had been suspicious of all of it, but powerless to object, since acquisition of new medical technology was a high priority of the Federation government. Beverly supposed she could see Troi's point. The Selenkers guarded most of their advanced technology with rabid zeal. Medical technology was a major exception. Of course, Beverly had her own take on that. Like she often said, doctors everywhere were united against a common foe, Death. And it wasn't as if, in this one area at least, the knowledge flow wasn't a two-way street. The Selenkers had eagerly accepted her own gift, delivered on behalf of the Federation, of the latest Federation research journals, and samples of Federation drugs. That had galled Troi as well, though somewhat less so, since it was evidence of Federation/Selenker parity. Though now that she thought about it, Beverly realized that the thought that the Federation was the mere equal of a capitalist plutocracy would likely set Troi's teeth on edge, too.

* * *

Wesley walked out of the record store with his head in the clouds. His hands clutched his new music player protectively, as if he was afraid it would fly away if he let go of it. He still couldn't believe his good fortune. He'd been all set to by one of the remaindered players Ned had showed him when Data had walked up and offered to lend him enough money to buy a fancy, high end player. After all, the android had explained, he had little use for the work credits he received for performing his duties, and so had plenty of them. Wesley had taken Data up on his offer instantly. He'd been giddy then, but after Ned told him that the player came with one hundred songs of his choice loaded into the player's on board memory, Wesley had become downright rapturous. The selection process had taken some time, mostly due to the need to check particular songs against the Controlled List, and it was nearly local noon by the time they finished up and left. After tapping Wesley on the shoulder to get his attention (Wes had his earphones on, and was playing a tune loudly enough that Geordi could hear it) Geordi suggested, "I'm hungry. Who wants lunch?" 


	4. Chapter 4

Star Trek and all related characters and indicia are owned by Paramount. This work of fan fiction is written for pleasure, not profit.

_JadziaKathryn: Reading it as an AU is fine :). That said, I think a case can be made that the Federation (at least in the TNG era) is a communist state (possibly a dictatorship). Many episodes are quite preachy about egalitarianism and Federation moral superiority; there were several instances of bartering (indicating that such Federation currency as exists isn't widely accepted), and then there are the Ferengi - merchants portrayed as greedy connivers who the Federation has to restrain for the good of all. Also, we never hear about elections or other political matters. No-one ever talks about the latest news, or sports, or holovids. There aren't many ships to be seen, even around Earth (which should be swarmed by them, being the Federations capital planet) and there don't seem to be any privately owned ships (at least, none that I can remember). That's one possible interpretation, anyway. Glad you liked what I did with Geordi and Dr. Crusher._

_grayangle: In later chapters we'll head into the Federation itself to take a look at Earth and Vulcan, and then touch on the other main powers of the Star Trek universe. The overall story will probably run up to the beginning of the Dominion War._

_Teal Thanatos: Thanks, glad you're enjoying it! More is coming, but I have to warn you that I update kind of randomly._

Johannes Garibaldi, Warp Drive Technician 3rd Class, Star Fleet, assigned to the _Enterprise_, wished that Lieutenant Varan would shut the Hell up. Garibaldi was following the Vulcan down a street in New Chicago. He and five of his shipmates had been dirtside for nearly six hours, and in that time Varan had talked almost non-stop. His constant chatter was focused exclusively on the political, social, economic and moral short-comings of the Selenker Republic. There wasn't a sight to see that didn't elicit a comment of some sort from the pointy-eared freak. Garibaldi thought glumly of the fifty Selenker dollars in his pocket, money that would likely never get spent if Varan had his way. So far, every request to enter a shop or store had been denied. Bookstores especially seemed to rouse the Vulcan's ire, if the angry (for a Vulcan) glares he'd directed at Garibaldi had been any indication. After the fourth request Garibaldi had given up asking, partly out of frustration, and partly out of fear. Varan had mentioned the need to report 'frivolous, potentially counter-revolutionary' activities on the part of the enlisted personnel in his charge. That had been enough for Garibaldi. The last thing he wanted, or needed, was to sit through yet another Political Indoctrination class. So he kept his mouth shut. Varan was well ahead now, Garibaldi's shipmates in close tow. Garibaldi himself was hanging back, glancing down side streets, marveling at the sheer abundance of material wealth the Selenker's possessed. Federation politicians routinely denounced Selenker's 'capitalist excess', never noticing (or perhaps deliberately ignoring) that materialism was the cornerstone of Federation social and political philosophy. After all, wasn't every being in the Federation entitled to food, clothing, shelter and meaningful work? Weren't goods and services rationed to ensure that everyone had what he needed, but no more? Garibaldi snorted humorlessly. Everyone knew (though few dared say it out loud) that the rationing was because there was barely enough of anything to go around, except in Star Fleet, which had first call on everything.

* * *

Jean-Luc Picard spoke clearly and forcefully. 

"Tea. Earl Grey. Hot."

There was a hum, as the transporter in the Ready Room went to work. A glass mug, full of steaming brown liquid, appeared out of thin air. Picard picked it up and sipped. Not bad. Not as good as real brewed tea would have been, but quite passable.

Picard rubbed his head with his free hand. He was working on his report to Star Fleet about what he had seen during his tours of Selenker naval facilities, and had reached something of an impasse. He wanted to give an account of his impression of Cynthia Braye, but was having to struggle with not making it sound like fawning hero-worship. That could have dire consequences. It was one thing to have a healthy respect for the woman, and her abilities, but quite another to make her sound like some sort of warrior demi-goddess.

He glanced at his desk. The computer terminal built into it was on, but Picard wasn't using it. The terminal had a nasty (and quite deliberate) tendency to record, permanently, everything that was written on it, even if the user deleted something.

"Especially if the user deletes something," Picard thought sourly. That was a red flag for Star Fleet's Political Office, who vetted everything the computer recorded for 'potential counter-revolutionary tendencies'. How many officers had their careers come to a sudden, permanent end because of some impertinent remark they had made in the heat of a moment? Too many for Picard to stray into that area, that was sure.

That was also why he had resorted to drafting his report in an old fashioned notebook, with a pen. Any 'mistakes' would end up in the disposal unit, after he had burned them. Picard wasn't sure, but he didn't entirely discount the rumor that the disposal units sent trash to the Councilor's Office before it was stripped down to atoms for recycling. He shook his head. He had to put Admiral Braye into perspective. Maybe reading about her father would give him some hint of how his should proceed. He plucked one of his precious collection of paper books from its place on the shelf. The pages rustled softly as he opened it. It was an annotated copy of a popular history of the Selenker Navy. Picard grimaced. Someday he would have to acquire an unadulterated copy. Then he wouldn't have to put up with Star Fleet 'editors' attempts to 'clarify' the text. They hadn't, thankfully, altered the words the original author had written, but there were a multitude of footnotes, almost all of them political in nature.

"In April of 2347 (approximate Stardate: 24290) increasing Cardassian harassment of T'vaarian shipping culminated in a full-scale invasion of the T'vaar System. T'vaar had been liberated from Cardassian rule seven years earlier by the Selenker Republic, and the new Cardassian government wanted it back. In anticipation of such a move, Admiral McKeel Braye had been authorized by the Selenker government to act as he thought best. Hastily assembling what ships were at hand, Braye set out from the fleet station at Osmose, and arrived in time to thwart the Cardassian attack. Standard Selenker policy was (and still is) to make the Cardassians pay a price in territory for each such incursion. That being the case, Braye went in pursuit of the fleeing Cardassian task force, pausing just long enough to learn the invasion fleet's point of origin from prisoners."

"Arriving hard on the heels of the Cardassian squadron, Braye offered battle to both the invasion fleet and the system defense force. Though outnumbered in hulls almost three-to-one (Braye's flagship, the battleship _Constitution_, was under fire from four Cardassian capital ships at one point) Braye forced the enemy to withdraw after three hours of hard fighting. Braye then landed his Marine division, which quickly overwhelmed the Cardassian garrison, securing Silver Springs for the Republic.

"The twin disasters of T'vaar and Silver Springs caused the recently installed Cardassian government to collapse. It's successor ceded Silver Springs to the Selenkers, and peace was restored. Since Silver Springs lay deep within Cardassian territory, the question of free access was addressed by the treaty. A corridor of space one light year in diameter and stretching from Silver Springs to T'vaar was set aside for exclusive use by the Selenkers and their allies."

Picard leaned back. A thought took shape within his brain. Picking up his pen Picard began to write.

'McKeel Braye was bold, aggressive, and not afraid to take risks. In this regard Cynthia Braye is certainly her father's daughter. However, after re-reading her file, I noted that she has a marked tendancy toward recklessness as well. That being the case, we may be able to turn her formidable strengths against her, by tricking her into rash action...' Yes, that would do nicely, Picard smiled to himself as his pen continued to wend its way across the pages of his notebook.

* * *

"How about that one?" Wesley suggested, pointing across the busy street at a small but crowded looking restaurant whose sign proclaimed it to be 'Grandpa Gordon's American Cafe'. 

Geordi nodded agreeably. "Sounds good to me, Wes. Data?"

The android cocked his head, as if pondering the matter. "While it is true I do not need to ingest organic matter to sustain my functions," Data proclaimed with solemn verbosity, "I do like to taste things," he continued with a much brighter expression. Geordi and Wesley grinned. Data often claimed to lack emotions, but his two companions had long since decided that was untrue. An intelligent being _had_ to have emotions in order to function normally. After all, there were a dozen or more eating establishments within view. A purely logical, unemotional being would have carefully weighted the relative merits of each, from distance to potential cost to waiting time based on the crowd factor, and more besides. Instead, Data had made a snap decision, eliminating the majority of options on the basis of 'instinct' alone.

"Well," Wesley said, "Now that that's settled, I'm hungry." He turned on his heel and headed toward the nearest corner with it's attendant pedestrian crosswalk.

They were met at the entrance by a middle aged man in a white shirt and black tie.

"Hello, gentlemen," he greeted them cheerfully. "Just the three of you today?"

"Uh, yes," Geordi replied.

"Would you like a table or a booth?"

"A booth, I think."

"Smoking or non-smoking?"

"Non-smoking."

"Very good, if you'll please follow me..." The man led them across the small restaurant to a booth with a view of the street. While Wesley, Geordi and Data sat down the man placed menus in front of them. "Your server will be with you momentarily. Enjoy your meal, gentlemen," the man said, and then he was off to greet more customers.

Geordi opened his menu. Data and Wesley followed suit, but Wesley didn't really look at his. He was far more interested in the restaurant and its patrons. There were, he judged, about eighty beings at the various tables and booths. He also noted a bar at the back of the restaurant, where more people sat, some eating, some drinking despite the early hour. As with the express that had brought them into the city, the crowd was predominantly Human with a healthy leavening of other races. Wesley was trying to gage the relative proportions of each non-Human race when he spied a girl heading their way with a tray in her hands. The tray held three glasses and a pitcher of clear liquid: water, no doubt. It was the girl that fascinated him. She was about his height, slim but curvaceous. She had wavy black hair that hung to her shoulders. She was wearing a mid-thigh skirt and a white blouse that had it's sleeves rolled up and which was tied together rather than buttoned. A short camisole top worn beneath the blouse kept the outfit modest. She had fine, almost elfin features and a dazzling smile. She also had a distinct greenish tint to her skin and ears whose tips swept up into points.

The girl reached the booth and smiled down at them. "Hi!" she said brightly as she set dripping glasses of ice water in front of each of them. "I'm Cissy, and I'll be your server today," she added as she set the pitcher in the middle of the booth's table. "Have you decided what you want, or do you need more time?"

Geordi answered immediately. "I think we need more time, Cissy. At least I do."

"As do I," Data added absently as he pored over the menu.

Wesley just stared blankly, until Geordi nudged him in the ribs. "Uh, right!" Wesley stammered. "I...need more time too."

The girl called Cissy's eyes sparkled. "Fine. Can I get you anything to drink besides water?" she asked, producing a notepad computer from a pocket in her skirt.

Geordi glanced at Wesley then said, "I'll have coffee, please."

"Regular or decaf?"

"Regular."

Cissy turned to Data. "And you, sir?"

"What is the Breckenridge Brew Pub Sampler?" Data asked.

"With that you get eight small glasses, each with a different kind of beer from the microbrewery on the other side of the block," she explained, pointing toward the bar. A door was visible in the back wall of the restaurant. "You get a stout, a porter, a pilsner, an ale, a pale ale, a bock, a lager and a wheat beer. The eight glasses add up to a true pint," she added.

"I'll have that," Data told her.

Cissy turned to Wesley, "How about you?" she asked flirtatiously. Wesley blushed. He quickly scanned the menu. He ordered the first familiar thing he saw.

"I'll have a cherry cola," he stammered. Cissy smiled.

"Ok, coffee, the brewpub sampler, and a cherry cola. I'll be back in a few minutes with your drinks." With a final smile she turned and walked away.

When she was out of earshot Geordi nudged Wes in the ribs again. "What's with you, Wes? You act like you've never seen a pretty girl before," he teased.

"Aw, come on, Geordi," Wesley objected.

"Relax, Wes," Geordi grinned. "She _is _pretty, after all, and she seemed to take an interest in you. If she wants to flirt, go ahead and flirt back."

Wesley tried changing the subject. "She's a Vulcan, isn't she?"

"Probably," Geordi allowed offhandedly. "A lot of Vulcans have settled here over the years, though I suppose she could be a Romulan."

"Statistically, the odds of her being of Romulan decent are only one in twenty-seven point six one, based on the latest Selenker census figures," Data weighed in. Geordi and Wesley gaped at him.

"What?" Data asked, puzzlement plain in his voice.

"Nothing, Data," Geordi said, shaking his head. "Let's figure out what we want to eat before she gets back."

When Cissy returned with their drinks they ordered. Geordi, on her recommendation ordered a meatloaf sandwich. Data ordered a cheeseburger with the works, and Wesley opted for a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup.

As Cissy was turning away from them Wesley spoke up. "Uh, Cissy?"

She turned back. "Yes?"

"Can I, uh, ask you a question?" He hesitated briefly. "It's, uh, it might be kind of personal," he cautioned.

"If it's too personal I'll just refuse to answer it," Cissy replied pleasantly.

"You, uh, you _are_ a Vulcan, aren't you?"

A flicker of surprise crossed Cissy's face. "If you're asking what species I am, then yes, I am a Vulcan," she answered. "Why do you ask?" she added curiously. Wesley flushed.

"Well, uh, it's just that, well, you don't act like any other Vulcan I've ever met," Wesley explained.

Cissy frowned. She took a good look at the trio. "You're from the Federation, aren't you?" she asked, as if noticing their uniforms for the first time.

"Uh, yes," Wesley confessed.

"That explains it then," Cissy said. "The only Vulcans you've ever met are Surakites."

"Surakites?" Wesley repeated.

"You know, those fanatics that control Vulcan and force everyone to live according to Surak's philosophy of logic over emotion," Cissy clarified.

"Fanatics?" Wesley repeated dumbly.

"You ever hear of _IDIC_?" Cissy asked.

"Sure, _Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations_," Wesley said.

"The Vulcan ideal," Cissy agreed with a slightly sarcastic smile. "In theory anyway. The way my grandpa tells it (He and my grandma left Vulcan just before - well, they left seventy-two years ago. Draw your own conclusions.), in practice it's: You can act however you please, just so long as you act like everyone else." A hint of bitterness crept into her voice. Cissy shook her head. "But there I go, talking politics again when I should be working." She smiled warmly. "Let me get this order placed before you starve to death," she said, pressing a button on her notepad. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other customers to see to," she said and headed for the kitchen.

"Good one, Wes," Geordi reproved with a shake of his head.

"What'd I do?" Wesley demanded plaintively.

"You assumed, based solely on her race, that Cissy would act a certain way," Geordi explained gently. "Just like they teach you not to do in Interspecies Relations." Wesley turned red.

* * *

Garibaldi halted when he noticed they were passing yet another bookstore. How many bookstores were there in this city, he wondered as he gazed through the glass display windows. There were hundreds of books in the window cases alone, and he could see thousands more on shelves inside the store. He considered asking Lieutenant Varan again for permission to go inside, but bit his tongue when he read the name of the store. 'Townsend Rare and Specialty Books: Small Press, Self-published and Used,' Garibaldi muttered silently. Varan would have three kinds of fits (for a Vulcan). What to do? Garibaldi toyed with the idea of just going in, but then he'd have to explain how he'd gotten separated from his group. He could say that he'd stopped to look at something, and when he looked up Varan and the others were no longer in sight, except...except the Betazoid witch would know he was lying. Or would she? Betazoids were telepathic within their own race, but only empathic with others. She'd know he was nervous, but given the potentially severe penalties Garibaldi would know might be awaiting him could explain that. He glanced after the others. They were well down the street, Varan still in the lead, talking his head off without looking back. Garibaldi turned his attention to the display. One title in particular seemed to leap out at him: 'Marxist Mistakes - A point by point refutation of Karl Marx's 'Das Kapital'. It was a book Garibaldi had never heard of. Not much of a surprise. Until that moment he'd never seen any book that purported to refute the ideas of Marx. Always a curious person, and a vociferous reader, Garibaldi knew he had to at least look at it. He clenched his fists, closed his eyes, and began to count. When he reached one hundred he opened them and looked up the street. His group was nowhere in sight. Trembling nervously and questioning his own sanity, Garibaldi pushed through the door and into the bookstore. 


	5. Chapter 5

Star Trek and all related characters and indicia are owned by Paramount. This work of fan fiction is written for pleasure, not profit.

_WWLAOS: We'll see a bit more of Cissy, a lot of Admiral Braye, along with Garibaldi and a few other, more familiar faces._

_JadziKathryn: My take on replicators is that they assemble objects from stored materials, be it atoms or molecules. Fashioning stuff from pure energy would take a LOT of power: making one kilogram of matter would require as much energy as would be generated by the annihilation of one kilogram of matter. That's a bit too energy intensive, even for the _Enterprise_, so farming, mining and manufacturing are still the source of nearly all goods._

_grayangle: Glad you're liking it._

_trkkie: I never read that book. My view of Troi (for purposes of this story, at least) is that 'Ship's Counselor' is another way of saying 'Political Officer'. Hope that clarifies things. And of course, I'm glad you like the story._

Riker scrolled down the screen of his PADD, going over the items one more time before his meeting with Captain Picard. It was a daily ritual, required by regulations, where-in Riker would bring the captain up to date on the status of the ship and its crew. Riker smiled to himself. Jean-Luc Picard commanded the _Enterprise_, but William Riker managed it. It was his job to organize the crew, stores, training schedules, maintenance: indeed, every aspect of its operation, and do it so well that Captain Picard never noticed. It was a daunting job, one that could, when things were going badly, leave Riker with no free time at all.

This wasn't one of those bad times, Riker noted thankfully. With the _Enterprise_ in parking orbit and not scheduled to load her own share of the convoy's cargo for another three days, there was less to do than normal. Well, that wasn't quite right. The number of tasks was the same, but not so time consuming. Take the daily fuel consumption report. The warp core wasn't even idling. Engineering had opted to use the down time during their stay in the Republic to do some preventive maintenance that could only be done with the core cold. Indeed, many of the ship's systems were off-line or operating at minimal power. The life-support system was the biggest energy hog at the moment, and it could almost have been run off the batteries. The single fusion reactor they had lit was operating at small percentage of its rated maximum. All of which made for a nice, uncomplicated fuel use report.

Riker halted at the Ready Room hatch and pushed the call button. Almost at once he heard the familiar word, "Come." That was one of Picard's eccentricities. Every other captain Riker had served under used the word "Enter." Just why Picard didn't was one of those little mysteries that never seemed to get solved. Even now, after several years under Picard's command, Riker still found it odd. Apparently he was never going to get used to it. Oh well. The hatch slid aside and Riker stepped into his captain's sanctum sanctorum.

"Good afternoon, Captain," Riker said formally.

"Good afternoon, Number One," Picard responded with equal formality as he looked up from his computer terminal. Picard gestured at one of chairs in front of his desk. "Have a seat, Wil," he invited in a much friendlier tone of voice. "Anything exciting happen today?"

Riker grinned. "Nope. It's been a nice, boring day." He slid the PADD across the desk. Picard turned it around and began reading.

"The main thing is that Engineering says the warp core will be down for another eighteen to twenty hours, barring unforeseen complications." Picard nodded silently and Riker added, "So far they're on schedule, and haven't run into anything they didn't expect." That was always a good sign. Picard added another four hours for restarting the core. It could be done faster, of course. Almost instantly, in fact, but cold starts were hard on the equipment and dramatically shorted the service life of core components. Given their present circumstances there was no need to hurry, so a nice, easy restart was possible. Riker watched as Picard kept reading, pausing occasionally to sign off on Riker's recommendations. Some captains were picky about having things done their own way. Picard wasn't. True, he sometimes disagreed with Riker's solutions to various problems - or rather, Riker's approach wasn't always the one Picard would have thought of right away. But, as long as they were workable, Picard tended to let Riker have his way. Picard would sometimes require changes, but not often. Riker took that as a sign of Picard's trust in him and his abilities.

Picard stiffened slightly. "What's this about Hanson being late for watch again this morning?"

Riker sighed. "Ensign Kolos reported Comm Tech Eric Hanson was twenty-two minutes late for his watch this morning."

Picard frowned. "That's the third time this month, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir." Picard said nothing. The expectant look on his face asked the question for him.

"I spoke with Hanson and his bunkmates. Apparently he's homesick and hasn't been sleeping well."

"I see," Picard said. "I trust you've already told him to see Counselor Troi and Dr. Crusher after his watch ends?"

"Yes. In fact," Riker glanced at the chronometer on the desk, "he should be with Deanna now."

"All right then. One or the other of them should be able to help him. That being the case I see no need to resort to official discipline at this time." Picard scanned down the rest of the items on the pad, signed off on them, and slid it back towards Riker. "Anything else?"

Riker produced a folded sheet of yellowish paper embossed with a seal of red wax. "This arrived a short time ago," he said, handing the paper to Picard. The captain broke the seal and unfolded the sheet. He read the contents quickly.

"It seems the captain of the _Victory_ would like us to come for dinner this evening," Picard announced. "I think I could stand a tour of one of the Selenker's most modern battleships, don't you?" he inquired solicitously. Riker grinned.

"I take it I'll be telling their messenger that you accept," Riker chuckled.

"Most assuredly," Picard nodded.

* * *

Troi kept her expression calm and friendly while Crewman Hanson told his tale. She could feel fear radiating from him. Some of it was fear of her, though the flavor of it suggested that was more because she was an officer than anything else. There was also fear of punishment, along with a sick self-loathing. If he had looked as miserable as his emotions said he felt, he would have been a pathetic sight indeed. 

"It's just that I've never been so far from home," he explained, his voice raw. "It wasn't so bad in basic, because we were always so busy I never had time to think about it. Tech school was the same way, and even then, it was at least on Earth. Now, I'm way across the galaxy. I think about home all the time, and I worry I'll never see it again. I lie awake in my bunk for hours before I fall asleep, and then I oversleep."

Troi smiled gently. "It's all right, Eric," she assured him. "Homesickness is a very common thing, and perfectly understandable. It's so common, in fact, that we counselors take a special course in how to deal with it. I have some techniques that are proven to work, and I want you to try some of them." Hanson looked at her curiously. "Why don't we start with writing," Troi suggested. "Instead of recording your letters home, write them out. Writing can be very relaxing. Also, try keeping a journal. When you feel homesick, write down how you feel and what you're missing. You may find that expressing your feelings helps you put them in perspective." Hanson nodded his understanding. "Also, I find that when I'm having trouble sleeping, a glass of hot milk before I turn in helps me drop off faster."

"Hot milk?" Hanson asked, puzzled.

"Hot milk," Troi repeated. "Supposedly it contains a natural sleep aid. I don't know about that, but it does help you relax, so it can't hurt," she added with a smile. Then she became businesslike. "I know you have to see Dr. Crusher yet, so I'll sent you on your way. Start your letter writing and your journal today. I'll want to see you again next week to evaluate your progress. And try the hot milk tonight. It really works."

When Hanson had gone Troi rubbed her eyes wearily. She doubted Dr. Crusher would find anything: Hanson's problem was psychological, not physical. Fortunately it was one that was easily managed. And it was a welcome reprieve from other matters. In twelve hours she'd have to start processing another batch of crewpersons wanting to take liberty dirtside, followed immediately by the task of dealing with anyone who failed to report back aboard on time, for whatever reason. Intellectually Troi knew that defection wasn't all that likely. Assuming all seven hundred and fifty of _Enterprise_'s crew took liberty, they might lose one or two. It was far more likely that anyone who failed to return would simply have gotten lost, and the Selenkers, Troi had to admit, were very helpful in assisting such persons in getting back. Welcome (and surprising) as that was, it didn't change the fact that Troi would have to perform a psychological evaluation and write two reports on each individual, and if there was one thing in the universe she despised it was paperwork. Troi leaned back and sighed. She'd have to call Dr. Crusher. Hanson had been pretty upset. Hot milk, by itself, might not do the trick. The final decision would be Crusher's, but Troi resolved to suggest that a small amount of sleeping inducing drugs be added to any hot milk Hanson ordered. That settled Troi consulted her computer terminal. Her next appointment was a nice, easy marriage counseling. She pushed the intercom key. Instantly the voice of her assistant crackled from the bulkhead mounted speaker.

"Yes, Counselor?"

"Send in Ensign Jackson and his wife," Troi ordered.

"Right away, Counselor."

* * *

Wesley found his mouth watering as Cissy approached with a tray of food. The replicators aboard ship turned out food that was...edible, but that couldn't hold a candle to the real thing. She smiled at him as she set his soup and sandwich in front of him, and he decided to risk another question. 

"Uh, Cissy?"

"Yes?" she replied, still smiling.

"About what I said before? I should have minded my own business. I'm sorry."

Cissy made a dismissive gesture. "Don't sweat it, kid. You didn't know, and the only way to find out was to ask."

Wesley almost sagged with relief. He wasn't really sure if he dared say what he was thinking, but there was, he reasoned, no harm in trying.

"So, uh, what time do you get off?" he asked, trying to sound confident.

Cissy laughed. "Trying to live up to the 'girl in every port' legend?" she asked.

Wesley's face flamed. "No! No. I just, well, I just think you're really interesting, and, uh, I'd like to get to know you better."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Sixteen, huh? You know, uh..."

"Wesley."

"Wesley, I'm more than twice as old as you are."

"Really? You don't look it." He said the last so earnestly that Cissy's cheeks darkened as well.

"I've never seen a Vulcan blush before," he added. "It's kind of pretty."

Cissy said nothing, just looked at him with an oddly thoughtful grin on her face.

"Oh, what the heck," she finally said. "Be back here at two, and you can buy me a cup of coffee or something."

When she had gone Geordi said, his tone somewhat incredulous, "Damn. And I thought I was a fast worker."

Data weighed in as well. "It will be interesting to hear you relate your encounter, especially if you succeed in 'bagging' her." He spoke in such a matter-of-fact tone that Wesley and Geordi just gaped at him. In response to their shocked expressions he affected a confused look.

"What?"

* * *

Garibaldi looked around in wonder, grateful now for his run in with the shopkeeper. The man had approached him after he'd been standing reading for several chapters and said, "Hey pal, this ain't no lending library. You wanna read that, buy it." 

Garibaldi had been embarrassed, to say the least. Fortunately his attempt at apologizing had worked. Indeed, once the shopkeeper found out that Garibaldi was from the Federation he'd become downright friendly. He'd sold Garibaldi a copy of 'Marxist Mistakes' at barely above cost ("Hey, I got a business to run here," the man had said.), then told him about a nearby branch of the New Chicago Public Library. Garibaldi had found the place without difficulty, and had walked inside to find a whole new world. The first thing he saw were the periodicals. Printed reading material was uncommon in the Federation (being a waste of resources, after all) but he recognized newspapers and magazines. There were hundreds to choose from, on every subject imaginable, it seemed. There was even (to his surprise) a communist weekly from the Federation. Tempting as the papers were, though, he lingered only briefly before heading for the books. The Selenkers used the same library organizing system the Federation did. Garibaldi quickly deduced the layout and made a bee-line for the Political Science section. There he found books. And what books! There were tomes arguing for and against every political system Garibaldi had ever heard of, and even some that were completely new to him. Scanning the shelves he snagged a text titled 'The Decline of Democracy in the United Federation of Planets'. 'Marxist Mistakes' was interesting, to be sure, but he could read that later. Garibaldi opened 'Decline' and started reading.

* * *

Reg Barclay fidgeted nervously. He really, really didn't want the assignment he'd been given. It wasn't that there was any real personal risk. All he had to do was wait in the Metro Southwest Terminal and keep track of who got back when, and look into who was late and why. He had been thoroughly briefed by Commander Riker and Counselor Troi, who had made it perfectly clear that he wasn't responsible for anyone who turned up missing. It wasn't up to him to make sure they got back on time, only to account for their whereabouts. Still he wished he hadn't been the one chosen. He'd have much preferred to stay aboard the ship and work on the warp core. Heck, he'd have preferred to scrub toilets with a toothbrush, to use the old expression. Anything but a damned political assignment. He sighed. Oh, well. There was no avoiding it and, he reminded himself again, it wasn't risky. At all. He was prepared for every possible contingency. There would be a staffer from the embassy to assist him, and a member of the New Chicago Policy Department as well, to co-ordinate police efforts to aid lost crewpersons. It would be easy. Even if there was a (shudder) defection. In that case, all he had to do - all he was expected to do - was pass word to the ship that he'd been notified that someone had asked for 'political asylum'. Even if everyone who had gone on liberty defected, Reg Barclay wouldn't be responsible in any way. 

They said.

He hoped.

It would be easy.

It would be easy. He started tapping the side of his neck the way Counselor Troi had showed him. He felt some of the tension leave him. He kept on tapping.

It would be easy.

* * *

Geordi and Data parted company with Wesley a little before two o'clock, after Geordi had reminded Wesley of how to conduct himself and where to meet up with them again. Most of the people on leave where going to be put up for the night in accommodations arranged by the embassy with the help of the local Communist party and other Federation sympathizers. Geordi, Data and Wesley had opted for a hotel downtown, with Geordi picking up most of the price (all of it, really). 

"I don't care if you are scoring, or only think you might," Geordi had said. "Be at the hotel by six o'clock, got it?"

"Got it," Wesley had answered.

"I mean it, Wes. Don't get distracted. I don't want to have to come looking for you. Understand?"

"I understand, Geordi."

"Ok, then. Go have fun."

When Wesley had departed, Geordi turned to Data.

"Well, what should we do now?"

Data thought for a moment. Being an android gave him a huge memory, and Geordi knew he'd done exhaustive research on New Chicago before they'd arrived. "The city's Recreational Baseball League is playing it's season," Data offered. "I believe there is a game scheduled to begin within the half hour at a nearby sports complex. Perhaps we could acquire tickets?"

Geordi grinned. He liked baseball, and had forgotten that the Selenkers still played it.

"Sounds good to me, Data. Let's go."


	6. Chapter 6

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_G-go: Thanks for all the reviews! Your Warbird concerns should be answered here, I hope. Treating it as AU is fine. An annihilation reactor is just another term for a matter/antimatter reactor (which produces energy by annihilation)._

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_Pesterfield: Thanks for pointing that out._

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_Thanks to: jauc, WWLAOS, Darkness Surrounds, JadziaKathryn and grayangle._

Joshua MacLeod drummed his fingers on his desk and glanced at the clock, again. A few more minutes. Halfway through his first term as President of the Republic, MacLeod had been forced to learn anew the value of patience when he ascended to the office. Though active in politics his whole adult life, MacLeod had never held elected office until tossing his hat in the ring for the presidency. He had instead been the CEO of one of the Republic's largest corporations, and while that position had given him plenty of executive experience, he'd been woefully unprepared for the snail's pace at which things got done in government. True, dealing with recalcitrant shareholders was similar, but shareholders had nothing on members of Congress. MacLeod was convinced that no matter what policy he proposed, someone would oppose it, if for no other reason than MacLeod had thought of it. It was maddeningly frustrating for a man who was used to having people jump when he gave an order, but it had been a good learning experience too.

The current situation was a prime example. He was awaiting the arrival of the Romulan Ambassador, who had been asked to present himself at one o'clock in the afternoon. It was now twelve after one. While it was said that one did not keep the President waiting, in practice there were all kinds of things, major and minor, that could combine to produce delay: traffic, the need to process through security, etc. That didn't mean that MacLeod enjoyed it when people were late, but he'd become accustomed to it now. He glanced at one of the two other people in his luxurious office.

"How much longer, Bill?" MacLeod asked.

Bill, a dark suited member of the Presidential Security Service, spoke into a microphone woven into the fabric of his jacket lapel, then touched his ear as listened to the reply.

"Sixty seconds, Mr. President," he announced in the no-nonsense tone he always used. MacLeod hid a grin. He made a point of using the first names of the service staff of Lexington Hall, the Selenker presidential mansion, as well as his security teams. Most of them enjoyed that: there was a special thrill that went with having the most powerful man in the Republic know your name. It had certainly impressed the Hell out of a very nervous Joshua MacLeod thirty-five years earlier. Of course, MacLeod knew now that it was impossible to remember all those names. He, like the man he'd met all those years ago, had a staffer who followed him around, reminding him of the names of the people he was meeting. Bill was an exception to the rule. MacLeod saw him every day, so remembering the mans name wasn't difficult. There was also the fact that Bill was a bit uptight, and didn't really like MacLeod calling him by his given name. But there was nothing he could do about it.

MacLeod turned to the other person present, Secretary of State Ko Tarant.

"All set, Tarant?" MacLeod asked, his lips quirking into a somewhat strained grin. Ko, a Bajoran by race, grinned back.

"I don't see why this time will be any different than last time, Mr. President."

MacLeod nodded. "Or the time before that," he commented.

"Or the time before that," Ko rejoined.

The exchange could have gone on for some time, but was interrupted by the main door to the office opening. MacLeod's Chief of Staff stuck his head in the door.

"Ambassador Pardalus of the Romulan Star Empire to see you, Mr. President," he announced.

"Send him in," MacLeod ordered briefly.

Pardalus glided into the room, stopping in front of MacLeod's massive desk and bowing gracefully.

"President MacLeod, it is my honor to answer your summons," Pardalus intoned formally, his accent lending his words a peculiar but not unpleasant lilt.

MacLeod gave Pardalus a steady look, then glanced at Secretary Ko, who took his cue perfectly.

"Pardalus, your government is up to its old tricks again," Ko said chidingly.

"Oh?" the Romulan asked innocently. MacLeod had to hide another grin. He was sure Pardalus knew quite well what Ko was speaking of, and was merely feigning ignorance.

"They tried to slip another cloaked ship into the system," MacLeod growled. Pardalus nodded in understanding but a flicker of puzzlement crossed his face as well.

"I see," he said slowly, his tone confused. "Our Agreement of 2299..." MacLeod cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"You're right, Pardalus. Under the terms of the Agreement I wouldn't normally call you in for this, we'd just dispatch a Note to your government." That was the normal procedure. After several incidents in which Romulan ships had been damaged or destroyed by Republican ships, tensions between the Republic and the Empire had risen to the point where full-scale war was expected. Conflict was averted by the adoption of a gentlemen's agreement: the Romulans could send as many cloaked ships as they wanted in the Selenker System, while accepting that the Selenkers would destroy any such ships if they detected them. It had become a game, almost, with the Romulans using the Republic as a test bed for new cloak designs as they struggled to get ahead of whatever means the Selenkers were using to detect their ships. In the decades since, the Empire had lost forty-seven ships in Selenker. A similar number had managed to escape (or been allow to get away, though MacLeod didn't see any reason to tell Pardalus that).

"Well then..." Pardalus began.

"They used a Warbird this time, Pardalus," MacLeod said flatly.

Pardalus winced, and MacLeod felt a twinge of sympathy. It was one thing to lose a scout (the usual case), quite another to lose a capital ship with a crew of a thousand or more.

"Mr. President, I have no knowledge of any change in my Government's position regarding relations with the Republic. Selenker is far too valuable to us as a trading partner for us to provoke you unnecessarily."

MacLeod nodded but said nothing.

"Just the same, Pardalus," Secretary Ko threw in, "Given the unusual choice of ship, we'd like an explanation."

Pardalus nodded again. "Of course. I'll contact my Government immediately on my return to our embassy." He hesitated a moment and added, "Were there any survivors?"

MacLeod shook his head. "Its warp core destabilized, I'm afraid." Given the cataclysmic nature of the Warbird's demise, the Navy hadn't even bothered to look for survivors.

"I understand," Pardalus said. "If I may be excused...?"

MacLeod shook his head with a laugh. "I never like to end meetings on a down note if I can help it." A nod to Ko resulted in the Secretary producing a bottle and three glasses from a small cabinet. The liquid in the bottle was a shimmering, electric blue. Commonly known in Human dominated space as 'Romulan Ale' it was more like whiskey than ale, with even more varieties. This particular bottle, Pardalus noted, came from the northern continent of the planet Remus, specifically from an archipelago off said continent's western coast. It was an obscure label, not well known outside the Empire. Pardalus smiled as Secretary Ko poured. He was sure it was no coincidence that it was his favorite version. Taking the glass offered him, Pardalus took a moment to savor the complex bouquet of the drink.

"To peaceful relations between our people," MacLeod proposed, raising his glass.

"Here here," Pardalus agreed.

* * *

Picard watched the _R.S.S. Victory_ grow from a barely visible dot into a veritable mountain of gleaming alloy that utterly dwarfed the shuttlecraft _Galileo_.

"That is a _big_ ship," Riker breathed admiringly. He was sitting in the pilot's seat, guiding the _Galileo_ on the course mandated by the Selenkers. They were approaching from portside aft, and would have to round the _Victory_'s bow before docking in the starboard shuttle bay.

"Very kind of our hosts to allow us an all around view before we land," Picard added from the right hand seat. He studied the leviathan with professional interest. _Victory_ was a third again as long as _Enterprise_, and far more voluminous, her one hundred and fifty meter diameter hull being in the form of a slightly flattened cylinder with rounded ends. And she needed that volume, to store the huge amounts of fuel her fusion reactors craved.

The ship's eight impulse engines were mounted in pairs at cardinal points around her stern. The wide separation, Picard knew, was for purposes of survivability. Likewise her warp nacelles. Unlike most navies, the Selenkers dispensed with the usual two large nacelles, replacing them with dozens of small ones mounted all over the ship. Such an arrangement had advantages and disadvantages. On the downside it was a more complex design, which meant added costs in construction and more maintenance headaches, but on the upside it essentially eliminated the likelihood of a single hit disabling the warp drive. It was, Picard thought sourly, one of the few times frugality bowed to survivability in Selenker ship design practice.

His eye noted the yellow squares painted on _Victory_'s flanks. They outlined her weapons bay hatch covers - her gun ports, one might say. There were thirty-two of them in three rows, eleven on the top and bottom, the remaining ten in the middle. Picard felt a slight shiver run down his spine. He didn't know if was her size, or her unusual design, but she _looked_ lethal.

"It's hard to believe she only masses three and a half megatonnes," Picard said, half to himself.

"I don't think she does," Riker said unexpectedly.

"What's that?" Picard asked, turning to face his first officer. Deanna, seated behind them, had leaned forward, a scowl on her face.

"We keep deviating from our programmed course," Riker explained, gesturing at the control panel. "Not much," he elaborated, 'But enough that..."

"Why does a course deviation mean Section 31's mass figures are wrong?" Deanna interrupted frostily.

Riker gave Deanna a steady look. "Because the guidance system is programmed with their numbers, and it isn't keeping us on course," he said patiently.

"Section 31..." Deanna started to say.

"...are only human, and can make mistakes like anyone else," Riker finished. Deanna's scowl didn't vanish, but she sat back, saying nothing. Troi might be an ideologue, but she wasn't so far gone as to put ideology ahead of reason.

"Can you estimate how massive it really is?" Picard asked. It was Riker's turn to frown.

"Well, this thing's sensors aren't the best, and the guidance computer wasn't really designed for analysis, but based on the rate of deflection...maybe twice as much."

Picard pursed his lips in thought. He'd always thought the official numbers were unrealistically low. After all, the _Victory_s had been listed as only slightly more massive than the preceding _Yamashiro_ class, which were considerably smaller. Then Picard had an unpleasant thought. What if all the mass figures were low? It was a cornerstone of Star Fleet tactical thought that Selenker ships were lightly built, in order to reduce per unit cost. That made a certain amount of sense, given the Selenkers' legendary frugality, but it was at odds with what he'd seen with his own eyes so far.

Picard turned toward the others. Besides himself, Riker and Troi, Dr. Crusher and Lt. Worf were along for the occasion.

"Keep your eyes open," he ordered, "for anything that might support or refute Will's theory." He added the qualifier to mollify Troi. Riker might be able to cross her openly and get away with it, but Picard didn't care to take that risk. He hid a smile. There were recorders in the shuttle, of course. Any review of the data they contained would show that it was Riker who had questioned Section 31, not himself. He didn't think anything Will had said would get him in trouble, especially if they could bring back enough evidence to prove Section 31 wrong. Still, if someone down the line did take exception, that fact that he had neither supported nor encouraged Riker would likely keep any of their ire from splashing on _him_.

* * *

Captain Denise Richards, Selenker Navy, was in a foul mood. Well, that was a little harsh, she admitted to herself. Irritated, yes, foul, not so much. Half of her irritation came from the fact that her beautiful ship was about to be infested by a gaggle of Fed-rats, a prospect that didn't please her at all. The other half was because she'd essentially been ordered to invite them aboard by no less a person than Admiral Cynthia Braye herself. Richards clenched her teeth at the memory of receiving the e-note from the CNO. It was unusual for a mere captain, even the commander of a fleet flagship, to get messages directly from the highest ranking member of the service, so she'd opened it immediately, and immediately regretted doing so.

"I'd consider it a personal favor, my ass," Richards snarled.

"What was that, Skipper?" Richards glanced to her left. Commander Jill Cunningham, her executive officer, was looking at her.

"Nothing important, Jill," Richards said with a shake of her head. "Just marveling at the mindset of the high command is all."

Cunningham chuckled. "Somehow I doubt it's that innocent," she smiled.

Richards had to grin. She and Cunningham had been in the same class at the academy. They hadn't been friends then, but they weren't enemies either. Richards had gone farther and faster, career wise, but Cunningham didn't seem to resent it.

'Probably because she knows I'm not exactly thrilled with it either,' Richards mused. She gave a slight sigh. She was sure that she had earned every promotion and special opportunity that had come her way, but that had to be balanced against the fact that a number of people, far more than she was comfortable with, believed she had slept her way to where she was now. More than once she had cursed her inheritance of her mother's lush figure and blonde locks, along with the breathy soprano voice that kept so many people from taking her seriously.

"No, it isn't," Richards admitted. "I don't like having a scheduled deployment postponed so I can make nice-nice for a bunch of God-damned Commie sons-of-bitches."

Cunningham gave her a serious look and Richards relented.

"Ok, ok, I'll be polite," she promised.

"I never doubted that," Cunningham quipped. "You take all your assignments so seriously..." she trailed off mockingly. Richards glared, then turned her attention to the honor guard. They were all waiting at the edge of the hanger bay, safe behind a partition of transparent aluminum, for the Fed-rat...er, _Federation_, Richards corrected, shuttlecraft to land. It was on short final, plainly visible through the open doors of the bay. The Marines of the honor guard were smartly turned out in their dress blue uniforms, gleaming rifles grounded butt down at their right feet as they stood at Parade Rest. Lieutenant Jabbar, the detachment commander, stood rock still in front of them, his eyes staring straight ahead. He carried no rifle. Instead, a sheathed sword hung at his left hip. Ensign Nog, diminutive and nervous looking in his Ferengi cut dress whites, would greet the Federation party along with Bosun 2nd Class Tucker, who would pipe Captain Picard aboard in fine bourgeois Selenker style.

"I'll be polite," Richards repeated, "But I'm not going to go out of my to make them feel welcome, either."

* * *

Picard kept his expression neutral as he started down the short ramp formed by the lower half of the shuttle's access hatch. He paused at the bottom step, waiting. Just to one side were two people, a Ferengi in an officers uniform, and a Human male in the garb of an enlisted crewmember. The Human raised a bosun's pipe to his mouth. A moment later the old familiar notes sounded.

"Pee-wheeee-oooo!"

The Ferengi spoke, his amplified voice echoing in the cavernous hanger bay, proclaimed, "_U.S.S. Enterprise_, arriving!"

The dark skinned man in the Marine uniform moved just enough to bark, "Pre-sent, ARMS!" In one motion the Marines moved their weapons to the ordered position, as their commander swung his sword to its equivalent location.

Picard had known to expect the militaristic ritual, but that didn't mean he liked it. Still, he was guest, so he played long. Stepping to the hanger deck he paused and saluted the Selenker flag, then the Ferengi officer.

"Permission to come aboard, ensign?" he asked gravely.

""Granted, sir," the ensign replied. "Welcome aboard the _Victory_, Captain Picard. I'm Ensign Nog. If you and your officers will follow me, please?"

With the others in tow, Picard followed Ens. Nog toward a pair of senior officers. One was a short blonde... No, she was short only compared to her companion, he realized. It was hard to tell through her uniform, but she had a curvaceous figure that looked soft, somehow. Her face and eyes were anything but soft, though, the eyes especially reminding Picard of cold blue steel. Four broad rings of gold at the cuffs of her jacket marked her as a captain, Captain Richards no doubt.

The woman beside her was a distinct contrast. The three cuff rings of a full commander adorned her jacket, but that wasn't the thing that struck Picard most strongly. Nor was her dusky bronze skin and tall, lean, muscular physique her most striking feature. It was, for some reason, the fact that she was a Klingon. Why that should seem odd was something he didn't really know. Most likely, he reasoned, it was just that there were so few Klingons in the Federation, and only one in Star Fleet. Simple unfamiliarity. That was it.

They halted just short of the two. Nog stepped between the parties and made the introductions. When he was finished Picard extended his hand.

"Captain Richards, it's a privilege and an honor to be your guest." Richards' eyes tightened slightly, then she relaxed and much of the steel left her expression.

"The pleasure is mine, Captain Picard," Richards replied in a voice so soft and sensuous that Picard almost started in surprise. Richards gestured at the Klingon beside her. "My XO, Commander Jill Cunningham."

"Cunningham?" Picard repeated.

Cunningham bared her teeth in what Picard had learned was the Klingon equivalent of a smile.

"My great-grandfather decided to take a Human name when he emigrated to the Republic," she explained. "Apparently Cunningham sounded the most like his Klingon clan name."

After Picard introduced the rest of his officers, Captain Richards laid out their schedule.

"First a tour, then dinner. I always enjoy a chance to show off my baby," she said, a hint of genuine warmth touching her face as she gestured at the ship around them.

"I look forward to both," Picard assured her.


	7. Chapter 7

The atmosphere aboard _R.S.S. Victory _was different than Picard was used to. He didn't think it was because of the decor, drab grays with only occasional spots of color, or the lighting, which seemed adequate. _Victory_ was a touch on the cramped side, by Star Fleet standards, with machinery seeming to take precedence over the comfort of the crew, but that wasn't what put Picard off his ease either.

It was the crew, he decided at last. By what he had seen they were well trained, with an air of relaxed confidence that suggested that they believed themselves to be skilled and competent, but that wasn't the problem either. It was their attitude toward Captain Richards, and their officers in general. As she strode along the passageways of her ship, crew of all ranks stepped aside to let her by, even though there was plenty of room, some even assuming the position of 'attention' until she passed. For some reason Picard found that display of deference disturbing. He knew his own crew respected him, but he had never experienced anything like what he was observing now.

Of course, he noted wryly, that was due to Star Fleet's mirroring of the egalitarian ideals of the Federation at large. It simply wouldn't do for the captain of starship to demand gestures of obedience from his or her subordinates. And of course, deference to superior ranks was a concept that the Selenkers trained into their military personnel. There was a reason, to be sure. While Star Fleet used a hierarchical system because it was a simple and relatively efficient way of controlling a bureaucracy spread out over millions of cubic light-years of space, the Selenkers used it to ensure that junior ranks obeyed senior ranks. There were whole sections of Selenker military law devoted to the maintenance of discipline, with punishments ranging up to death for offences that would be considered minor in the Federation. The attitude only went so far, though. At one point during the tour they had come upon a group of techs working on something inside an open panel. The senior tech had come to attention as Captain Richards approached, but the others kept right on working, giving her only a casual glance. The tour had paused while Captain Richards gave the work party and the system they were working on the once over.

"How's it going?" she'd asked the tech at attention.

"Just fine, ma'am," had come the answer. "We should have it fixed in a half hour or so."

Richards had nodded once, said, "Carry on," and walked off without looking back.

Picard had been a bit surprised by that. Aside from the fact that no officer had been present in any capacity, the fact that Richards hadn't inquired as to what was being worked on and/or why had struck Picard as odd. True, it might have been something minor or routine, but on board the _Enterprise_ Picard would have asked, partly to see if the techs were up to speed on their training, partly to find out if the work was necessary, and partly to remind the crew of his own competence.

"That might just be her leadership style, though," Picard mused. Both approaches had advantages and drawbacks, but most importantly they both worked.

Picard looked up as one of the stewards refilled his wine glass. Captain Richards' quarters were about as spacious as Picard's own, in terms of overall volume, but were more elaborately subdivided. One of those divisions was a formal dining room, where Picard, Troi, Riker and Dr. Crusher had joined Richards, Commander Cunningham, and two of Richards' other officers. One was the Chief Engineer, a human male named Alexander Singh. The other was the Victory's gunnery officer, a human female named Adeola Yoruba. They were an interesting pair. Picard had concluded that you couldn't tell much about a person from Selenker on the basis of their name. Singh, for example, was a name from the region of India on Earth, as Alexander was of Greek derivation. The man who wore the names looked like he came from neither place, directly or indirectly. Likewise the woman, whose Nigerian name was at odds with her pale skin and flax colored hair.

Picard let his eyes sweep around the table, which was hand carved and polished mahogany under its snow white linen table cloth. Adding to the ostentation were bone china plates, cut crystal glasses, and sterling silverware. Picard could have matched all of it in one of Enterprise's holodecks, but this stuff was real, and probably extremely expensive, even from a Selenker perspective. Even without Deanna's empathic abilities Picard could tell that Lt. Commander Yoruba was uncomfortable in the midst of such finery, though she hid it well. Captain Richards, on the other hand, seemed to regard the splendid surroundings as no more than her due.

Deanna looked as uncomfortable as Yoruba did, but Picard suspected that was more because she was biting her tongue to keep from saying something impolite, if not downright incendiary. The way she tensed up every time a steward approached her was proof enough of that.

Riker, in contrast, was totally relaxed, chatting amicably with Commander Cunningham about the trials and tribulations of serving as the executive officer of a large ship.

Picard found himself wondering just what the point of all this was. Deanna had whispered in his ear that Richards was far from pleased to have Federation personnel aboard her ship, and for all that Picard disliked the purpose Deanna served on the Enterprise, he trusted her judgment about other people's feelings. At the same time, Picard was sure the fine meal (real food, not replicated) and equally fine surroundings were par for the course aboard a Selenker ship, at least where honored guests were concerned. Likewise the tour. Picard had learned a great deal about Selenker warship design and construction, just from what he'd been able to see as they walked through the _Victory_. True, one could only tell so much about a system from external appearances, but one could make some deductions based on known capabilities as compared to size. Even remembering the truth that anything the Selenkers allowed him to see was something they wanted him to see, Picard was sure that Section 31 had seriously underestimated both the _Victory_'s mass, and far more importantly, its _capabilities_.

Picard's thoughts were interrupted by Troi's voice.

"Excuse me, Captain Richards."

All conversation stopped, not the least because the words were the first Troi had spoken during the entire meal.

"Yes, Counselor Troi?" Richards asked, smiling politely.

"I'm sure you're aware that I'm a Betazoid," Troi began, "and that Betazoids are empathic with most intelligent species."

Richards nodded.

"I'm sure," Troi continued, "that you also know that I can't shut that ability off, any more than I could my eyesight or hearing."

"Of course," Richards agreed.

"That said, and not meaning to be rude, I can't help but notice that you seem...irritated."

Picard groaned inwardly. Troi's words were perfectly innocuous, but he was sure she was up to something.

"Irritated?" Richards repeated. The blonde captain's expression went thoughtful. Eventually she nodded in agreement. "Yes, I suppose I am a bit irritated."

"May I ask why?" Troi inquired.

Richards smiled thinly. "We were supposed to sail two days ago for a six month deployment, but the high command held us up so they could show us off to the staff of the Federation flagship."

The candor of the answer surprised Picard, and must have surprised Deanna as well, for she responded with a mild, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Well, orders are orders," Richards shrugged.

"May I ask where you were going? If you're permitted to answer, that is," Deanna amended hastily.

Richards smiled again, and this time Picard thought he detected a hint of malice in her expression.

"Certainly. We're going to the Fortuna System," Richards said.

Deanna's face went flat, a Picard nudged her under the table with his foot. the glare he gave her when she looked at him said 'Let it lie' as loudly as any shouted words could have.

Fortuna was the Federation's version of Silver Springs, though the analogy was imperfect. Fortuna was a prosperous system on the fringes of the Federation. A progressive government had negotiated to join the Federation, and a treaty to that effect had been drawn up and ratified by a narrow margin. It was then that some heavy handed and completely unnecessary behind the scenes machinations by the Federation Council had come to light. The progressive Fortunan government had collapsed because of the scandal, to be replaced by a reactionary nationalist regime that had proceeded to repudiate the treaty.

The Federation Council argued that since the treaty had been ratified it was still valid, even though it hadn't officially entered into force. The Fortunans disagreed, violently. A Star Fleet task force was dispatched to 'restore order', only to drop out of warp to find that the Fortunans had allied themselves with the Selenker Republic. Waiting for the Federation task force was the Fortuna System Self Defense Force, backed up by the Selenker First Fleet. Faced with the prospect of a bloody battle he wasn't at all sure he could win with the forces at his disposal, the Federation commander had prudently reversed course, leaving the matter to the diplomats.

The Federation Council had been furious, but with tensions flaring along the Cardassian Frontier (and the Border Wars soon to begin) they had been forced to let the matter go. Of course, the Federation had never relinquished its claim to Fortuna, labeling it a 'rogue system', but as long as the Selenkers maintained a fleet presence there nothing would be done to resolve the matter, much to the annoyance of hotheads and ideologues.

Troi didn't say another word the whole time they were aboard _Victory_.

* * *

Wesley got back to the cafe a little before two. Instead of going inside he sat down on the rim of a large, dirt filled concrete box that was home to a tree of some sort and watched the traffic, both foot and vehicular. Trucks and buses rumbled by constantly, along with more designs of personal automobiles than Wesley had ever imagined existed. And that was just at street level. Overhead were multiple layers of traffic. There weren't as many vehicles, even allowing for the vertical space for them to spread out in, but Wesley supposed that was because counter-grav equipped vehicles were both more expensive and less efficient than ground-based machines.

The smell was interesting too, but not in such a good way. Most vehicles in the Federation were powered by electricity, be it from batteries, fuel cells, or what have you. The Selenkers seemed to prefer internal combustion as a power source, and they certainly didn't use clean burning hydrogen as fuel. The smell of hydrocarbons, burned and unburned, filled the air. It wasn't overwhelming, but it was there, and quite noticeable.

"Unpleasant, too," Wesley said aloud to no-one in particular, fanning his face.

"What's unpleasant?" a familiar voice asked.

Wesley looked around and saw Cissy standing nearby, an amused smile on her face.

"How long have you been standing there?" Wesley asked, blushing slightly.

"Not long," Cissy answered. "Shall we?" she invited, gesturing down the street.

"We shall," Wesley grinned, rising. "Where are we going?"

"There's a little coffee shop I like, and it's not far away," Cissy explained. As they walked she repeated her earlier question. "So, what were you saying was unpleasant?"

"Oh, just the smell of all those engines," Wesley said. Cissy favored him with a blank look and he clarified, "We use hydrogen back home."

"Ah!" Cissy nodded. "Yeah," she said, sniffing, "It's not too bad today, not like it can be. But then, it isn't rush hour yet either."

It was Wesley's turn to give a blank look. "Rush hour?"

"What, you don't use that expression in the Federation?" Cissy asked.

"I've never heard it," Wesley admitted. "But then, I've lived most of my life at Star Bases or aboard ships, so maybe I was never in the right place to hear the term."

"Navy brat, huh? Well, rush hour happens twice a day, when people are coming to and leaving from work. All those cars on the road makes for murderous traffic," Cissy explained.

"Worse than this?" Wesley yelped, gesturing at the crowded street.

"Way worse," Cissy confirmed, then, "You _have_ led a sheltered life, haven't you?"

"I guess so," Wesley replied.

The two reached the coffee house. It was about the size of Ten Forward, Wesley judged, though of course the ambiance was totally different. The walls were plastered with old-fashioned 2D images and brightly colored flyers for concerts, poetry readings, political rallies and other such events. The walls, floor and ceiling showed clear signs of wear, despite being spotlessly clean, and lent the place an air of great age.

The coffee bar itself dominated one wall. There were two people behind it, a human male with longish hair and a beard and moustache, and female Bolian. The man looked to be in his forties, with streaks of gray in his hair. The woman was much younger, though Wesley couldn't really say how much younger. Bolians were hard for him to read that way.

Stepping up to the bar Wesley studied the menu while Cissy placed her order. The menu sported the usual varieties of coffee-based beverages, as well as various juices and food items. After not much pondering, Wesley ordered a cafe au lait. The process of making the drinks was familiar to Wesley, so he tuned it out and concentrated on other things. Like Cissy. She was chatting amiably with the girl behind the bar. It seemed obvious that the two were friends. Still, the display of casual familiarity was a touch unsettling. Part of Wesley felt a little guilty for thinking that, but it was true none-the-less. Vulcans just didn't act that way. Period. They were always serious and formal in public, and even those Vulcans he'd known personally tended to be, well, a bit stiff, even in private.

Cissy, on the other hand was...Wesley grouped for a word..._bubbly_.

When their drinks were ready Cissy led Wesley to a corner table.

"So," she asked solicitously, "What do you want to talk about?"

* * *

Aboard the _Enterprise_, things were running smoothly, despite the absence of the senior staff. Lieutenant Hallam Hayes wasn't surprised by that. After all, they were in a parking orbit, operating at minimal power. There wasn't a lot that could go wrong, really. Oh sure, accidents could and did happen, but the odds were low, and Captain Picard had decided that the ship's more junior officers could use a little bridge time.

From his post at Tactical, Hayes glanced at the center seat. Lieutenant Commander Prieto had the con, and was managing to look very authoritative, despite not having much to do.

The other bridge stations were manned as well, per standard procedure when the ship was free in space. Some of the officers on watch were running simulated drills, while others were catching up on required reading or doing routine system checks.

Hayes returned his gaze to the Tactical Console. He at least had something interesting and productive to do. He was using the ship's sensors to observe the forts that surrounded the planet Selenker itself. The forts were actually space stations, spherical structures averaging seven hundred meters in diameter, with the largest reaching a full kilometer across. There were twenty-one of them at present, orbiting Selenker at a distance of a million kilometers. They formed a shell around the planet, protecting it and the multitude of orbital facilities, both military and civilian, that surrounded Selenker in closer orbits.

Hayes' job this day was to glean as much data as he could on the characteristics of said forts. Starfleet knew they existed, as did everyone else in the galaxy, probably, since they were in plain view of anyone approaching the planet. What Starfleet didn't know was exactly what the forts were capable of. Given their internal volume (many times greater than a _Galaxy_ class ship, even for the smallest known fort) the forts were virtually certain to have power generation, shielding and weapons capabilities that dwarfed any individual ship. That was the logic that made forts attractive, to their proponents anyway. Since a fort didn't have to move, the space and mass saved by omitting warp and impulse drives, and a lesser requirement for certain other ship systems (like inertial dampers) could be plowed into armor, shields and firepower.

The problem was that, obviously, forts couldn't move. Massive firepower did you no good if it wasn't where you needed it. That was the main reason the Federation shunned such structures. For the same investment of resources that would yield a fort, you might be able to build ten, or even a hundred ships. Now, it was true that in the Federation Star Bases, Space Docks and other such facilities might be considered forts, given the heavy shielding and weapons mounts they sported. But there were no purpose built fortresses.

Hayes snorted. That was probably due to cultural differences as much as anything. The Federation, and by extension Starfleet, were firm believers in the concept of multi-function, multi-role, multi-use. That was why the _Enterprise_ was at once a front-line warship, a long range exploration vessel and, if need be, a transport capable of moving three thousand Federation soldiers to wherever they were needed. The Selenkers were firmly wedded to the opposite end of that particular philosophical spectrum: specialization. Where the Federation built one ship that could do three things, the Selenkers built three ships that could do one thing. The same was true of their orbital facilities. Space docks were places to park ships when you weren't using them. Major repairs and modification were done in shipyards. Fueling was done at a facility that served no other purpose, and so on.

Hayes shook himself out of his reverie. Whatever the philosophical underpinnings were, the fact was that the forts existed. They even made a certain amount of sense, given the small size of the Selenker Republic. With forts to watch over the home planet, the Selenker Navy could operate elsewhere, secure in the knowledge that the forts could hold off an attacker long enough for the fleet to return.

Hayes focused on one of his displays. One of the larger forts filled it, glinting in the light of Selenker's primary. At nine hundred and fifty meters in diameter, it had an internal volume _seventy-seven _times greater than the _Enterprise_. Even factoring in the Selenker predilection for obsolescent power and weapons technologies (fusion reactors and lasers) the fort represented a formidable obstacle to any attempt to attack the planet.

Hayes studied the image carefully. Resolution in visible light at this distance (eight hundred and seventy-seven thousand kilometers) was about four meters, so the finest details were obscured, but there was still a lot to see, and when one shifted into other spectra, even more was revealed. The fort had a weak shield up, probably to ward off stellar radiation and micrometeoroids. It was warm (duh), with an average temperature of twenty-one point two degrees Celsius. It had no active sensors on-line. It was surrounded by a very thin haze of water vapor and various gasses (a small degree of atmosphere loss being inevitable). And, by noting the amount of gravitational lensing that occurred when the fort passed in front of a star of known distance, he'd been able to work out the fort's mass: a staggering half a _billion_ tons. That made it as massive, on a per unit of volume basis, as the _Enterprise_ herself.

Hayes felt a small shudder run through him as he considered the implications. Thanks to subspace sensors, energy weapons like phasers (and, presumably, lasers) were effective at ranges in the low millions of kilometers, and effective range increased with weapon output power. Even if their weapons only had the range of Enterprise's main phaser batteries, the forts were all in in range to give each other support. That was, Hayes realized, like having a fleet of a thousand capital ships in permanent orbit. No wonder the Selenkers had built them. They made an attack on the home system extremely unlikely to succeed, even if the attacker was willing to accept massive losses to deal with the obstacle the forts presented.

"Ya know," Hayes mused under his breath, "Suddenly I find myself hoping we never have to fight these people."


	8. Chapter 8

Wesley pondered Cissy's question only briefly, before he answered, "Well, to start with, why did your family leave Vulcan?"

Wesley felt a certain amount of trepidation. He might be young and somewhat naive, but he had a pretty good idea why Cissy's grandparents had left their homeworld. The time Cissy had mentioned for their departure coincided with the finally achievement of absolute power by the Vulcan Communist Party and the suppression of the last vestiges of bourgeois lifestyles there.

A flicker of what might have been anger crossed Cissy's face, but it faded quickly.

"I can see by your face that you think you're stepping on a landmine," she said lightly, and normally you'd be right." Cissy gave him a frank look, then went on, "But in the interest of civil discourse, I promise not to vent."

"Fair enough," Wesley agreed, assuming a pleasant but attentive expression.

"My grandfather is a priest of the sun goddess V'ranni," Cissy began. "You've probably never heard of her," she added, and Wesley nodded, "because she never had many worshippers, even back in the old days."

"As the Surakites gained more prominence in Vulcan society, other belief systems started to decline." There was a touch of bitterness in Cissy's voice, and Wesley opened his mouth to protest, but she stopped him with a raised hand.

"I'll admit," she said, "that that can happen without malice on anyone's part. And I'll admit that at first the Surakites didn't actively oppose other religions."

"At first," she repeated after a pregnant pause. She looked Wesley right in the eye and said, "I know what you believe happened, and why, and I know what I believe happened and why, so I won't get into how religion died out on Vulcan. Suffice it to say that about seventy years ago it came down to leaving, or converting to Surakism whether you wanted to or not. My grandparents left."

Wesley knew that there was a lot Cissy was leaving unsaid, and in a way he was grateful for it. She was too interesting for him to get into a shouting match with her over things they would probably never change each others minds about, especially in light of the fact that he'd almost certainly never see her again.

"They came to Selenker originally intending to move on to some other world, but they never did. My grandpa says he didn't think much of Humans and expected things to be, well, not _bad_, but...difficult. He changed his mind, though, and ended up staying. They rest, as they say, is history."

"What does your grandfather do these days?" Wesley asked, able to keep from his voice but not his mind the thought that it would have been hard for a priest to get by with no superstitious yahoos to prey on.

"Oh, he's still a priest," Cissy said, surprising Wesley. "There were a lot more Vulcans in Selenker than he expected, though most were second and even third generation and had fully acculturated. And, as it turned out, there were communities of The Faithful (that's what we call ourselves) and a need for priests. So he found a temple and settled right in."

"So that would make you a second generation Selenker?" Wesley asked speculatively. Cissy shook her head.

"My father was in his twenties when they left Vulcan, but he met my mother here, and she's second generation, so I'm first _and_ third generation," Cissy answered, finishing with a hint of pride in her voice.

Wesley asked about her family, and learned that her father was the youngest of four children, two of whom had stayed behind when the others left Vulcan, and like his father before him a priest of V'ranni. He learned that Cissy herself was the middle child of three, that her older brother was employed by an interstellar shipping concern, while her younger brother was currently serving in the Selenker Navy and torn between making a career of it, or going to college.

"Did you ever serve?' Wesley probed.

"Army artillery, baby!" Cissy boasted, puffing up proudly.

"Army?" Wesley repeated. The Federation Army was Star Fleet's poor cousin, and widely viewed by the Fleet (Wesley included) as ignorant bumpkins, officers and all. Oh, there were surely some good people in the army, and the army played an important role in the Federation, but Wesley had a tendency to look down his nose at 'ground pounders' as his fellow officers referred to them.

"Four years," Cissy nodded, either ignoring or not noticing the slight tone of condescension in Wesley's voice.

"Did you ever go anywhere or do anything especially interesting?"

"Well, it was all interesting, in a way, but yeah," Cissy grinned. "After Basic I went to ordinance school and then to one of our proving grounds, where I spent half my term of service proofing weapons and ammunition."

"Proofing?" Wesley asked, unfamiliar with the term.

"Testing," Cissy clarified. "Every new gun has to be 'proof fired' to make sure it works like it's supposed to. We'd test samples of fuses and shells, too. The best part, though, was testing prototypes."

"How so?"

Cissy smirked. "Because we got to fire them until they broke and otherwise beat the stuffing out of them."

"I get it," Wesley chuckled. "You had to find out which bits were likely to break first and under what conditions."

"Exactly," Cissy confirmed with a smile. "Maneuvers on Cornwall could be fun too, though I didn't like having to wear an environment suit all the time when we were outside."

Wesley nodded. When the _Enterprise_ had received the order for the Selenker mission Wesley had done some research. Cornwall was the next planet out from Selenker itself. It was about three quarters as large, with a fairly dense but mostly unbreathable atmosphere, brackish seas, and few life forms more advanced than plants. The Selenkers had never bothered to terraform it, and it had few permanent inhabitants aside from miners and military personnel.

"Cornwall was where one of the two highlights of my army career took place,' Cissy confided.

"And that was..?"

"We got to watch the Navy fire a live torpedo against a surface target."

"A live torpedo? As in 'with a real warhead'?" Cissy nodded, and Wesley blinked. That would certainly have been a sight, he had to agree. Depending on who you asked, Selenker torpedoes were either slightly less, or slightly more powerful than their Federation equivalents. In keeping with Selenker practice, fusion bombs were used as warheads, and as a result Selenker torpedoes were quite a bit bigger. The effect of an atmospheric detonation would be exactly the same, though.

"How far away were you?" Wesley demanded.

"Ninety kilometers," Cissy supplied. "We parked our equipment and got into some trenches the Combat Engineers had dug. We were told to hunker down at t-minus sixty seconds, and then the bomb went off."

Cissy got a faraway look in her eyes. "It was brighter than the sun, of course," she recalled, "And it got hot. Really hot. I remember the plants were smoldering when we stood up. The fireball had cooled by then, and there was this enormous mushroom cloud rising into the sky. The weird part was that this was all happening in total silence. We didn't hear anything for almost five minutes, though it was louder than I expected when it finally showed up."

Wesley felt a bit awed. He'd seen Federation torpedoes explode, but only in space, where they resulted in a brief, albeit bright, flash of light. He had no desire to see one go off in an atmosphere, nor to be in the vicinity of such a thing. Cissy, on the other hand, seemed to recall the experience fondly.

"Talk about different outlooks on life," he muttered.

"I'm sorry, what?" Cissy asked, shaking herself out of her reverie.

"I was just wondering what the other milestone was," Wesley lied. "You mentioned that there were two."

"Oh," Cissy shrugged. "I made a combat drop once, but it was pretty tame in comparison."

"You were in a battle, and that was less intense than a weapon test?" Wesley asked skeptically.

Cissy smiled thinly. "It wasn't much of a battle, Wesley, just an anti-piracy op." At Wesley's quizzical look she elaborated. "Normally, when the Navy finds a pirate base they just nuke it from orbit. Sometimes, though, there are hostages to be rescued, or information to be gathered, so ground forces go down. My unit was assigned to one once. We landed a dozen or so kilometers away, fired a few rounds in support of the infantry, and that was it. We never even came under fire ourselves. Granted, at the time I was all keyed up, especially during the drop to the surface, but looking back it wasn't all that exciting."

* * *

Varan was in a state of near panic. For a Vulcan, anyway. He knew the widely held, if erroneous, belief of many beings (including some Vulcans) that Vulcans lacked emotions, and found himself wishing that were so. Unfortunately, Vulcans did have emotions. As a follower of the teachings of the great Surak, Varan didn't allow his feelings to show on his face, or in his behavior (in theory), but he definitely had them. And frankly, keeping his emotions off his face was easy compared to keeping them from influencing his behavior.

One of the crewmen he had been detailed to look after while they were on the surface, an engine room tech named Garibaldi, had disappeared. Just when and where, Varan didn't know, and neither did the other enlisted personnel who were with him. That was bad.

Very bad.

Of course, people sometimes did get lost, and groups did sometimes get separated, and if Garibaldi turned up somewhere claiming to have gotten lost there would be no serious consequences.

For him.

For Varan, on the other hand, the consequences could be quite serious indeed. If Garibaldi had gotten lost, Varan would catch a reprimand. If he was lucky, and Captain Picard was in a good mood, it would be verbal. That would be embarrassing, but have no long term effects. If he was unlucky, it would be a written reprimand, one that would go into his permanent record. As such, it would essentially end Varan's career. He wouldn't be drummed out of Star Fleet, but he would likely never be promoted again, nor given greater responsibilities.

If, on the other hand, Garibaldi had done the unthinkable and defected, Varan might as well cut his own throat right there. A quick death would be preferable to what would happen to him in the wake of a defection. He would be court-martialed and sentenced to be re-educated. At the re-education center his memories and personality would be all but erased, his intelligence would be reduced, and he would spend the rest of his life laboring for the glory of the Revolution in a factory or on a collective farm somewhere.

Varan prided himself on being smarter than most, and the prospect of being turned into a mental vegetable was the most terrifying thing he could imagine.

Varan had been retracting his party's steps, hoping to find that Garibaldi had lingered at some place of interest, then had had the good sense to stay there when he realized he was alone. Varan was honest enough with himself to admit that perhaps, in spite of the Surakian admonition against allowing one's emotions to influence one's actions, he was breaking that rule. Sure, if asked, he would say he was acting so out of concern Garibaldi, rather than himself, and it wouldn't even be a lie. It wouldn't be the whole truth, either.

As such, they had yet to find any sign of Garibaldi, and had reached the last place Varan knew for sure that he had still been with them. It was getting on toward night, his other charges were beginning to complain of hunger and weariness, and he was due at the housing arranged for them in less than an hour. There would be no concealing the fact that he'd lost one of his people, and that fact would soon be known aboard the _Enterprise, _with its inevitable consequences. Varan wanted to sigh in resignation and defeat, but didn't allow himself to. He was a follower of Surak. As such, he would face the resulting tempest with as much outward calm dispassion as he could muster. Schooling his face into an emotionless mask, he addressed the other crewmembers.

"It is clear that Technician Garibaldi has gone off on his own," Varan said, coldly adding, "despite orders to stay with the group at all times." The others shifted uncomfortably. "Whatever his motive for doing so might have been, it is clear we will not find him before our scheduled arrival at the Center for Social Justice," the CSJ being a communal education and living facility maintained by the Selenker Communist Party, where Varan, his charges, and most of the other people of leave from the Federation fleet would spend their nights while dirtside. "We will have to hurry to get there at the appointed time," he added, and set them off at a brisk pace. As he drove them, a glimmer of an idea took shape in Varan's mind. Maybe, somehow, he could cast Garibaldi's actions in a sinister light, and shift the blame to him. Such a plan had little chance of success, and was little more than a desperate gamble on Varan's part, but a little chance was better than _no_ chance.

* * *

It was almost six o'clock, and Geordi was standing outside the hotel he, Wesley and Data were staying at, scanning on coming pedestrians for a glimpse of his friend. Geordi wasn't too worried. Wesley was a good kid, and wouldn't be late on purpose. Perhaps by accident, as he could be a bit absent minded at times. Geordi grinned to himself. 'Or in this case, easily distracted.' Cissy was certainly attractive, and while she hadn't struck Geordi as the type who would go for casual sex, you never could tell. If Wesley was getting lucky, he might well lose track of time. Geordi could hardly blame him if that were the case, and would probably forgive him for being late...after he got the details of the encounter, of course. He was musing on that notion when a warning chime sounded, followed by an air car settling at curbside. A young man in a Star Fleet uniform climbed out, and Geordi immediately recognized his friend. Geordi caught a glimpse of the Vulcan girl in the driver's seat as she leaned over to wave goodbye to Wesley. As Wesley waved back the air car's turbine engines surged and the car rose to join the flow of aerial traffic around the hotel. Wesley stared after it until it was lost from sight, then turned and headed for the front door. He paused when he saw Geordi waiting for him

"How'd it go, Wes?" Geordi asked, a bit slyly.

"It was an interesting experience, let me tell you," Wesley replied.

"In a good or bad way?" Geordi inquired, puzzled by Wesley's expression and tone of voice. The boy seemed a bit shaken, if Geordi was reading him right.

"Oh, it was fun," Wesley confirmed. "Cissy's a nice girl and all, but..." his voice trailed off thoughtfully.

"But what?"

"Well, it's just... We were talking, and I kept going on about all the traffic. Finally, Cissy asked if I wanted to go for a ride, and I said yes. She took me to her apartment so we could get her car, and it turned to be, well, an air car."

"So?" Geordi asked.

"Well, it's just that she's supposed to be one of the working class, and here she is with a materialistic luxury reserved for the economic elite," Wesley said, a bit plaintively.

Geordi folded his arms and gave Wesley a firm look. "Wes, you know, or ought to know, that those same elites sometimes allow the masses to have access to older or cheaper versions of those luxuries in order to preserve an illusion of upward economic mobility."

"Yeah," Wesley nodded, "I remember that, Geordi. But she said her brother _gave_ it to her as a birthday present."

Geordi nodded absently. He could see why Wesley might be concerned, in so far as Cissy might not be what Wesley had first taken her for.

"Well," he suggested, "I've heard that the elites sometimes like to pass themselves of as members of the working classes, usually to keep up the pretense that the elites consider the masses to be their equals."

"She did say she was going to university," Wesley agreed. "She said she worked part-time as a waitress for spending money, because she had scholarships to pay for college."

Geordi snorted. "That should have told you everything right there, Wes. Obviously, she's an elitist who likes to slum."

"But she's so nice..!" Wesley protested.

"Just because she's a ruthless exploiter of the proletariat doesn't mean she can't be a nice person in private. They don't act like they do in holodramas all the time, Wes."

"I suppose you're right," Wesley admitted. Then he gave a little snort of his own and grinned. "And that air car of hers was awesome!"

"How so?" Geordi asked, relieved that Wesley was putting the encounter into proper perspective.

"Well," Wesley began, "It turns out that, once you're outside the city, there are free flight zones for air cars. No rules, do anything you want. And Cissy is a daredevil."

As Wesley began to ramble on about Cissy and her penchant for speed and stunt piloting, including killing both engine _and_ counter-grav at ten thousand meters and free falling for as long as she dared before restarting them, Geordi relaxed. Putting up with a moping Ensign Crusher would have put a damper on their leave. Now, instead of wasting time cheering Wes up, they could concentrate on having fun.

* * *

The orbital cargo facility to which the Federation convoy had been directed was mammoth affair that rivaled the largest space stations in the UFP in sheer size, if not mass. Unlike its Federation counterparts, it was in the hands of a private concern, and was one of dozens surrounding Selenker. Ensign Lanar Kasta, assigned to the Star Fleet heavy lift transport _Jupiter,_ found her gaze continually returning to the vast station. It filled the viewports on the side of Jupiter that faced it, if only because _Jupiter_ was fast alongside, anchored to the station by mechanical grapples that held her steady as the one point five megatons of cargo she was scheduled to load streamed aboard. The loading was proceeding smoothly, which pleased Ens. Kasta to no end. She was the officer in charge of _Jupiter_'s cargo spaces, responsible for both loading and unloading cargo, and for its safe stowage under way. She was, though, more than a little impressed and surprised by the sheer speed at which things were progressing. Of course the _Jupite_r had a modern automated cargo handling system, and the fact that the Selenkers used the same cargo module design as everyone else in this part of the galaxy (Star Fleet and the UFP included) didn't hurt. It was just that there was so _much_ cargo.

Back home the _Jupiter_ was considered a big ship. One of the biggest in the fleet, to be exact, and so rather rare. Loading a ship that big never went smoothly, because few if any Federation docks had the necessary experience, or room, to handle some much at once. Things were crowded, at least initially, and the crowding caused difficulties. Not here, though, and Kasta knew exactly why. The crew of this station were used to handling megatons of cargo, and probably did so on a regular, if not daily basis. Certainly all twelve of the docking points the station sported were occupied, and by the look of them could accommodate ships even larger than the _Jupiter_.

Kasta glanced at the displays that surrounded her in the _Jupiter_'s Cargo Control Room. They showed the flow of containers within the ship as well as the continually updating manifest, as the containers were scanned and their contents noted against the list of what had been ordered. Some had attached special storage or routing instructions, mostly the former, and the vast majority of those only required refrigeration.

A lot of the containers held 'Textured Vegetable Protein', 'Processed Complex Carbohydrates' and 'Vegetable Oil', staples of diets across the Federation, and substances (especially the textured protein) that Kasta, like many others, loathed. A smaller but still significant number contained real meat, dairy products, eggs, vegetables, flour, sugar, fish and what not. A few openly listed treats and delicacies like fruit, candy, caviar and truffles. A tiny minority had their contents listed as 'Classified' and were routed into the _Jupiter_'s High Security Storage Area.

Kasta's lips twisted in a bitter grimace. It was just barely possible, she supposed, that the mysterious containers held something vital to the well being of the starving masses on Centarus and Andor, or to the people of the Federation at large, but somehow she doubted it. She watched one of the cryptically labeled containers thread its way through the ship, and wondered what it might contain. Enough real food to feed a corrupt government or Fleet official and their family for a year? Drugs (medicinal or otherwise)? Personal electronics? Clothes? Kasta had heard the oft repeated legend of the Party boss who had audaciously smuggled in a fancy air car, which he drove in plain sight of everyone in the district he managed, because he knew he was untouchable because of his party connections.

Kasta snickered. Someone that arrogant would have been made an example, no matter what their connections, with the same prominent (but not _too_ prominent) coverage in the media that such individuals always received. No, whatever it was, it would be small and easily concealed. Some people would know if its existence, but only a few, and they wouldn't care, since they would get to enjoy it as well.

Shrugging, Kasta put the matter out of her mind. She would never learn what was in those containers anyway, since she wasn't allowed into that part of the ship. More to the point, she cared far less about the glory of the Revolution than she did about the glory of Lanar Kasta. If this operation went well, she might get a commendation out of it, maybe even a promotion. Advancing from Ensign to Lieutenant (junior grade) would be reward enough for the time being. She'd remember those anonymous containers, though, and went so far as to download a copy of the manifest to her personal tricorder. Maybe someday she'd be in a position to do something about them. The thought brought a realization to her mind, and a dark smile to her lips.

Always assuming she wasn't the one ordering them.


End file.
